Some Days Are Like That
by koozbane
Summary: A NOT Endgame compliant fix-it fic. How things could have gone, and the interaction/development that went into the years we didn't get to see. Sometimes things don't work out, and that's okay. They're picking up the pieces of the universe at large, trying to find themselves in the rubble. Everyone has a piece on the board, and the game isn't over yet. beta: DocWordsmith
1. Sombre

_**Wakanda  
**__2018_

Everything stops.

Steve wonders, briefly, if maybe someone has activated the Time Stone and preserved them in this moment. It would be the icing on the metaphorical cake, at this point. Forcing them all to sit and gaze at the dust settling on the grass and suffer and _mourn _endlessly until Thanos is done with them and ready to let them go. The silence suffocates him and seems to confirm his suspicions. Anxiety starts to claw its way up his throat, leaving him scared to even attempt moving from where his knees have settled in the remains of one of his best friends.

The spell is broken when someone wails to his right, a heart wrenching sound that echoes through the trees and tears through his chest. Steve curls his fingers in the dirt where his friend _should _be but just sort of _isn't _and tries to breathe, tries to ignore the wail as it hiccups off and starts up again. He digs his hands into the dust and dirt and closes his eyes, trying to force himself to focus through the fog of shock and horror as he runs dust (ash? he isn't sure which) through his fingers. He questions why Bucky is gone and he's still here, tries to decide whether to chalk it up to luck or fate.

Nothing about this feels right. They've lost fights before, lost people before, ruined friendships before, had to piece things back together before. It's a part of all of them, almost a staple of being in the Avengers - but it's never been like this. Steve wants to break down and sob and scream about how not fair it all is, but finds his chest heavy and his eyes dry despite himself.

Anchored to the ground, Steve drops his head and breathes and loses track of himself for a few moments.

Moments turn into minutes, twisting into what feels like hours where the dirt stains the knees of his suit and his fingers start to go numb from being curled so tight. The effort to hold on to the last of Bucky Barnes chokes him, renders him incapable of thinking past _he was just here _and _I just got him back_. The universe, not for the first time in his life, seems to be having a good laugh at his expense.

"That's half." Someone says behind him, voice dull. He recognizes it, after a moment, as Bruce. "Half the population of - of the universe."

"Where did they all _go?_" The second voice is Rhodey, tone tight with worry.

Natasha cuts in next, hard and blunt. A harsh dose of a reality that no one needs reminded of, but he's relieved she's not gone. "They're dead."

Tuning them out, Steve drops his handful of nothing back to the ground and rubs at his nose. He braces his hands on the ground next, pushes until he's on his feet and dusting his hands off and looking around. There's no telling who all is left, so far. There were so many of them - in Wakanda, around the states, off the planet. There's no way of judging how bad the damage is when they're all so spread thin and unable to communicate.

In front of him are Natasha and Rhodey, holding a tense conversation that he only catches bits and pieces of. There are whispers of names; Tony, Clint, Scott, Parker. Just behind them, still encased in the Hulkbuster is Bruce. He's silent, probably trying to communicate with FRIDAY to assess the damage. He's one of the few she might care to talk to, anyway. Off to the side is a the body of Vision, limp and dark and unresponsive. Steve wants to kneel by him and shake him except -

"Where's Sam?"

When the words come out of his mouth his companions freeze, looking to him. He can see the wheels turning behind their eyes, processing the question but not answering. He tries again, because he has to. He needs to.

"Where is Sam?" This time when he receives no response, the blond reaches his hand to the comm in his left ear. "Sam." His voice cracks, his skull and ribs ache. Nothing. "_Sam._"

Across from him, Natasha pushes her hair behind her ears and apologizes with nothing more than a look. The wailing in the distance goes quiet.

It's Thor who breaks the silence this time, looking and sounding tired and ragged. "We need to get everyone together." A pause. "We must assemble."

"There's nothing to assemble." Rhodey shoots back. "We've lost - Thanos is _gone. _Most of the Avengers are _gone._"

"We are not. Thanos is _alive. _We will find him." The god seems pretty determined, stomping his foot like a large child.

"You forgot the barely. We're barely alive."

Nat crosses her arms, looking between them with hard reluctance. "He has a point. We aren't exactly on the winning team, here."

"Not _yet._" Thor insists.

"He's right." Steve hears himself say as he bends down to retrieve his shield. "This isn't over."

Bruce sounds mildly horrified when he speaks up. "It's not going to be over until we die, is it? We're going to do this again, aren't we?"

Quiet falls around them again, an uncomfortable cushion between their words. They all seem to be thinking it over, judging whether or not this is worth it when they don't even know who or what is left on their planet or in the universe. The Hulkbuster pulls a hand down his face, filling the air with the sound of scraping metal. The accidental action would be funny, under any other circumstances. Hell, seeing the man in front of the _Hulk _in the Hulkbuster should be laughable.

"We don't even know where everyone is." Rhodey finally says, looking over at Steve.

"Then we do a head count. We find everyone who -" Natasha pauses, looks away. "Everyone we can. We regroup."

Thor nods then, seeming to approve of their group decision as he starts back toward the city. Rhodey gathers up Vision's lifeless form and is gone moments later, likely to beat all of them there. Bruce and Natasha take their time, discussing something Steve doesn't have the brain capacity to keep his mind on. It doesn't seem like a proper beginning or ending to the story, they've never been caught in this weird in-between before where no one is sure what to do.

Up ahead, a small figure blocks their path. After a second he can recognize it as the raccoon that jumped into their scuffle with the Norse god. The creature gestures erratically, voice loud and abrasive even from a distance. Thor stops to communicate with it, nodding every few moments. As Steve approaches he starts to make out bits of their conversation.

"-fighting the same fight. They could be out there." The raccoon ruffles his shoulders, waves a gun around without much care. "We should be out there."

Thor nods, rubbing at his right eye. "And we will be, Rabbit."

"We _better. _That dried up grape is gonna be a puree when we're done." He spits, giving Steve an ugly look the closer he gets. When he looks back at the larger man he seems to settle a bit. "I got something that can help."

_**Titan**_  
_2018_

_"I don't want to go."_

The words are still ringing in his ears. Peter's voice wet with tears and full of nothing but fear and sorrow and apologies that Tony didn't even _fucking _want.

_"I'm sorry. Mr. Stark -"_

Now that he's covered in the ashes of the younger boy, his eyes are burning and his mouth is dry. Any words he might have had are gone with the teenager, as if they never existed at all. Just like Peter. As if none of it mattered, he didn't matter, and this was for nothing.

The worst part, Tony thinks now that he can't feel the boy melting in his arms, is that no one will know. His family, any friends, his significant other - if they're around they won't know he's gone, or that he played a part in saving their lives. Or tried to, anyway. Tony's pretty sure that didn't work out, considering everyone else on this planet has disappeared and odds are his planet looks much the same.

It was all for nothing. The kid is dead for nothing and he never even got out of high school hell.

_"You could've saved us. Why didn't you do more?"_

It's all he can think about now. Tony's breath comes out sharp and quick, labored as if something has been draped over his chest and shoulders. He thinks he might be dying, too, nailed down in the ashes of a boy he couldn't save. Pete deserved better.

"You need to get up." The voice is cold and sharp. "We cannot stay here. You will get up."

"Wait." Tony hears himself shudder out a harsh breath, one hand still cradling a nonexistent body while the other moves to the wound in his abdomen. "I can't. We need to -"

"You need to not be a disappointment to your species." A hand lands on the back of his shirt, dragging him off of the ground and to his feet with ease. "I will not die here with you, I will leave you. We need to go."

Beside him now, the blue skinned Luphomoid is glaring at him. Or... He's pretty sure she's glaring at him. Her eyes don't have pupils so he can't be sure, she could be just glaring at their orange surroundings or the sky. The furrow to her brow and annoyance in her stance means she's probably glaring at him, though. He pulls from her grasp, admittedly surprised when she doesn't try to make him stay put. Tony looks around, tries not to think about the five people who were here just _minutes _ago. Nebula goes still, like a statue, as she watches him steady himself.

Tony forces himself to go through the motions, to get himself together. He tests his armor, finds himself less than surprised when it comes out spotty and refuses to stabilize around his body. It's taken more hits than he can count, probably saved his life when the Titan was smashing them around like toys. He can't even get a response from FRIDAY. But it's normal. Going over the suit is normal. It keeps him from choking or crying - a necessary distraction.

"The Necrocraft was... rendered useless, upon landing. They would have brought their ship. They will no longer be needing it." The woman to his left eventually says, though her gaze is no longer on him. "We will find it, human."

"I have a name." He whips back automatically, looking at his dirty nails.

Squinting, Nebula rounds on him impatiently. "What?"

"Tony." One brow rises. "Stark. Your genocidal dad knows me." The nasty look she gives him has him raising both hands, palms up in defense. "Human is fine, too."

When she speaks again, the cyborg's tone is clipped. "I am not done. This is not done." She's walking, apparently convinced she knows where she's going. Tony follows because, well, there's no one else. They're all that's left. "Thanos _will _die by my hand. His torture will be a thing of legends."

This is all well and good, but Tony is becoming increasingly less sure that his new companion is stable or trustworthy. In fact, the tone of her voice implies she _might _kill him too. Just for fun. For giggles. She's also talking about facing off one-on-one with the alien that put him steps from death and probably just destroyed half of the universe, so. She's not really proving herself to be stable here.

"He has all of the Infinity Stones." He points out, looking back to see the wind carrying blackened dust into the sky. He dimly wonders if he should have tried to grab some of it - of them. "That's six. That's a lot, if you hadn't noticed."

"I will kill him." She says immediately, voice sharp. "Or we will die trying."

Tony raises a finger to object, frown settled onto his features. "I might have a mild concussion but I don't think I heard myself agreeing to that."

Whipping around, Nebula comes to a halt. She's grinding her teeth, expression growing more and more agitated by the moment. Pushing all of her buttons is probably not a great idea right now, but it's not like there's anything else to be doing and, well. It's true. Tony might have run out here on a suicide mission but it's not like he agreed to go another one with a practical stranger.

"What else would you have us do?" She sneers at him, head cocking to one side. "You can waste away here, if you like, the same way they did. I will have my revenge, this year or the next, the cosmos will run -"

Tony waves his hands at her the best he can without irritating his wound. "Okay, hold on Naomi Campbell, hold your horses." She stops, actually willing to let him speak. It's a genuine shock. "We don't even know where he is. Running after him blind and injured is a bad plan - an even _worse_ plan than the last one, and that one destroyed half the universe because we couldn't keep it together. We have time to... make a plan. A better plan."

"I don't even know who Naomi Campbell is." Nebula snips, turning on her heel to head forward again. But she doesn't argue any further, so he counts it as a win.

"She's a supermodel, attitude problem, assaulted her assistant with a phone." The other doesn't respond, Tony gives up on this line of conversation. "That wasn't the important part. We need to be prepared."

They're reaching the top of a knoll now, light wind sweeping around them and bringing the smell of rot and decay. As they reach the top light reflects harshly into their eyes. When Tony puts a hand over his brow he can see it's reflecting off of something bright orange and light blue, standing out against the landscape like a sore thumb. If the Guardians had been trying to hide their presence they had done a shit job. But, maybe they hadn't bothered. Thanos was going to be prepared for them either way, probably.

Nebula stops at the top, gesturing down to their newfound ride. She nods once, to herself more than him, eying him over her shoulder as she begins down the steep hill.

"Fine." She concedes finally, turning her gaze to him with something like reluctant respect. "We prepare. And _then_ the cosmos run thick with his blood. The universe will scream and quake -"

Tony is pretty sure this is going to be the longest ride through space he ever takes in his life.


	2. Restorative

_**Exitar  
**__2018 _

There are a lot of things Brunnhilde was equipped to deal with, after her time being a Valyrkie and fighting Hela and traveling with two equally irritating brothers. Murder? Check. Drinking? Check. Betrayal? Check. Death? Check. Selling people to a Grandmaster on Sakaar? Check.

Suddenly being responsible for some ragtag team and the only remaining Asgardians in the entire universe after they've lost their homes and their king, their _gods _for what could very well be the last time? Well. That was something new. She had managed to shove some number of them into a pod and navigate them all to Exitar, but she hadn't really thought beyond that. The space port isn't necessarily dangerous, but with how low their numbers are the setup is not ideal. She tries not to think about how few of them are left, their numbers cut is half after meeting the Mad Titan. Part of her kind of regrets going down this road, instead of staying nice and cushy on Sakaar with an endless pile of free booze and no knowledge of this war.

Now she has to hunker down in the Boot of Jemiah and _pay _for her alcohol like a _real _and _contributing _member of the universe and worry about the last slices of a civilization. The whole adventure has been vastly overrated. She flags down a man walking with a tray of drinks and slides one from him, replacing it with a few of notes before sending him on his way.

She drinks the drink in seconds, and orders another. And another. Then a pitcher of something thick like a paste and a dark green color. It smells fine enough, but it takes her a little longer to down this one. She orders another once that's gone and ditches her glass altogether, raising the pitcher unceremoniously to her lips and drinking it that way. It's more efficient. Once that one is gone as well, she starts eying a wall by the bar with brightly colored bottles and considering her next pick.

"My, my. Mourning your fallen comrades and we aren't even in the ground yet." A sigh. "How sweet, to be missed."

Expecting Korg, or maybe Miek coming to ask her what to do next, Brunnhilde snaps her head to the side. Her words falter when she's greeted by a tall, dark haired, green eyed son of a _bitch _with a huge mouth. The part that really catches her concern, though, is that he's alone.

"That's not _quite _the way I expected to be received." Loki admits, sitting across from her with one smooth gesture. "I went to some trouble finding you. I would have at least expected some tears, maybe cheers."

"We expected you to be dead. Or hiding." Brunnhilde sniffs at him, taking another long drink. "I saw who that was - what that was. I've heard of what he brings." Swishing her drink in her glass, the drops her chin onto her fist and watches him. "If we're being honest, I had my money on dead. I'll owe Korg sixty pieces, now. You're putting me in the hole."

Giving her a dry look, the God of Mischief hums. "The first thing a sorcerer of quality learns is to make themselves as difficult to kill as possible. A long life is worth a tight throat." Knowing she won't get the joke, he continues. "You think too little of me."

"We were ambushed." Brunnhilde lifts one brow at him. "Defeat was written into our fates before we had a chance."

"Fate does not rule over gods. Whatever happens we do for and to ourselves."

Brunnhilde watches as Loki turns, catches a stranger by the elbow and gives them a saccharine smile. The yellowed skin and pitch black hair betray him as an Aakon. Making use of the all-tongue he speaks to them, holding their gaze and gesturing toward the bar slowly. The stranger blinks at him and then shrugs, nods, shakes his shoulders as he turns around and heads back toward the bar. He returns moments later with something clear in color that smells faintly like chlorine, leaving it on the table by the other man's elbow.

"When I concealed your presence I hadn't imagined you would pick such a _lovely_ vacation destination." The god sips his drink, looking tired. It's an odd look on him. "I've heard decent things about the... mining operations here."

Scoffing at him, the Valkyrie taps her nails on the tabletop. "Where are the others?"

This is where Loki really hesitates. He looks away from her, to the bar off on the side as he considers and reconsiders his words. He doesn't look upset so much as uncomfortable, unsure. Watching him falter has worry underneath her tongue, sharp like blood. When he doesn't answer fast enough she clears her throat, knocks a knuckle on the table to secure his attention. He shoots her an annoyed look.

"Heimdall has taken his place in the halls of Valhalla, as have the Asgardians who remained on the ship after your leave."

More out of habit than anything, Brunnhilde takes a long drink from her pitcher. "They will be remembered well." The words feel foreign in her mouth now, after so many decades of pretending they weren't hers to say.

"My brother and the Big One are alive." The god pauses, something flashing across his expression too quickly for her to catch. "They should be alive, though I suppose by now they may have gotten into anything."

Brunnhilde starts growing impatient with his slow pace and tone, as if he thinks she's a child who needs help comprehending these things or he just hadn't figured out where he was going. "All these options and _you _come _here_."

"That's exactly what I was thinking." The would-be king looks more amused than he has any right to, tapping one ringed finger on his glass thoughtfully. "My options at the time were few. With Asgard and the Bifrost gone, there are few ways to get through the universe quickly and my access to them has been altogether limited, you understand. Even getting here took time."

"A long time." She snipes back, narrowing her eyes. "Thor leaves a mess everywhere he sets foot as far as I've seen, and you couldn't locate him instead?"

Looking nonplussed, Loki shrugs. "And here I thought you'd be enjoying my return."

"You aren't exactly ideal company."

"Am I not?" Loki blinks at her, very mildly, and then she watches a yellow-green light twist around his features until he's much bulkier and his hair is short and blonde and his features match his brother. "I can make arrangements to make this more comfortable for you." He shifts again into someone smaller, less familiar without green skin and a deafening roar. "Is this better?"

The look of disgust she gives him says it all. His form shifts again, back to his usual green eyes and dark hair. "You deserve -"

Her words are cut off abruptly, stuck in her throat as she watches someone over his shoulder fucking _disintegrate _and, wow, that one is new. It happens again, to the patron right of him. And then the bartender. It moves across the bar like a plague, death suddenly gripping far too many of them and kickstarting chaos. Loki seems to catch on before she does, expression grim as he watches the damage start. He doesn't even look surprised, really, but maybe a little regretful. Horror drops like a weight in the Valkyrie's stomach, pinning her in place with a disgusting sense of fascination as someone screams and she watches ashes - dust? - move in the air around them like it's part of some spell.

When it's over - when she _hopes _it's over - Loki takes another drink of his drink and waits for her to meet his gaze. "It will be well." He says, and there's something in his smile she _really _doesn't like. Like he expects to _do _something about this. "There is work to be done."

_**Hibbing, Arizona  
**__2018 _

Despite popular complaints from the public, house arrest isn't actually that bad. Clint had even been _enjoying _house arrest for a while.

It's not that he didn't miss going out, doing things, being someone. It's not that he doesn't miss the Avengers or SHIELD or the extended family that comes with both of them. But getting to relax and retire with a significant payout from SHIELD (probably assisted by Stark Industries, if he had to guess, after SHIELD's public return under Jeffrey Mace some number of months ago and the more recent appointment of Alphonso Mackenzie as Director) at the ripe old age of 47 has been nice. Seeing his three kids and his wife every day had been nice. Not having to worry about dying during his day job had been _really _nice. Sure, he had to sort of sign a lot of his life away until further notice so that he wouldn't have to be stuck on the Raft for the rest of his life, but. A break is a break, and Barton was willing to take it.

For a while.

The change came quickly, and without warning. Clint always sort of thought if something big were going to happen they would get some warning. The sky darkening. A phone call from Tony or Happy or Fury or Nat - but no warning signs ever came or showed themselves to him. It just sort of happened. One moment he was there with Laura and Cooper and Lila and Nathaniel, enjoying lunch and teasing their children about school and wondering how he got so lucky. And the next there was nothing but dust in their food and death in the air.

He had screamed, cried, cursed, panicked for hours until he found himself too exhausted to do anything other than gather up the ashes of his family and try to distribute them into little jars to line up on the table, watching them as if it could reverse whatever just happened. Fury's words ring in his ears, reminding him to _enjoy the time while you have it _and _make the most of your retirement _like the former director has been mocking him for the past couple years.

It takes a few more hours for him to collect himself enough to check the news, to recognize the size of this catastrophe and consider what it's done to the Earth and just how much it changes everything from here on.

Forcing himself to his feet, the man heads toward the stairs. His first stop is their bedroom - his, now, he notes dully. He goes under the bed, first, pulling out boxes filled with old clothes from his children and toys they were going to pass down to any potential grandchildren. He tears them open, dumping sentimental sections of their lives across the bed and the floor. When he doesn't find what he's looking for he goes for the closet next, pulling down boxes of Laura's that she'll kill him for touching, later. _Would have killed me for, _he has to remind himself. Wedding photos and mementos from her father and mother peek at him from underneath the cardboard and then all of those bits of her life, the last of her, are scattered across the floor too.

When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, hair sticking in different directions and chest heaving with how worked up he is, Clint thinks he looks like a mad man. It doesn't deter him from his task in the least. His next destination is the attic, where he throws containers and boxes and ruins the remnants of his life in an effort to find what he wants.

It takes him an hour to uncover the plain cardboard box with _'BIRD BOY' _scrawled on the top in red marker. Inside is his bow, a set of arrows distinguishable only by the different colors marking them, and two suits. One he's worn many times and one he never quite got to, a gift from Tony the first time he retired. He can remember when he gave it to him, insisting that if he ever came out of retirement he would need something to _spice it up, things are getting stale._

And underneath all of that, a simple grey flip phone with only a few contacts in it and a charger wrapped around it. Plugging it in to the nearest outlet, he scrolls down to the third one and clicks the little green button to dial the number with shaking fingers.

It rings once and Clint takes a long, slow breath. Twice, and he begins to wonder if these phones even work anymore. Thrice, and he thinks maybe she's dead too. A fourth time and he's ready to hang up, try someone different, but then there's a distinct '_click!' _and the world seems to halt.

_"Barton?" _The voice on the other end of the phone is not the one he's expecting, deep and tired and confused.

"Rogers?" His response is automatic, surprised. "Where's -"

_"Sleeping." _Steve seems to understand his worry without him even having to say anything, response coming out before he can even finish. _"Just sleeping. Nat's fine, I just - I saw the name. She wouldn't have wanted to miss the call." _The line goes quiet. _"Laura...?"_

Clint doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to make it real. "Gone. They're all gone."

_"I'm sorry, Clint." _He sounds like he understands, like he's raw from it. It's a feeling that echoes in his own chest, dark and all consuming.

"Me too, Steve." He doesn't have the heart to ask. He doesn't want to know, right now, who else is gone. What else they've lost and how. He doesn't want to know about Wanda or Vision or Tony or Sam or - anyone, really. He isn't sure he can handle it. "What happened?"

Clint can hear him shifting, lowering his voice_. "How does coming out of retirement sound?"_

"Terrible." He snorts, reaching down into the box to pull out the newer suit. The gold accents catch the light, practically calling for him to put it on. "I'm not sure how you always manage to do this to me. You're in your nineties, _you _should be retiring too."

The line erupts in a laugh, something that shouldn't be fitting in the situation but somehow is. It makes everything seem lighter, as if half of the world hasn't just ended. Clint feels a returning laugh bubble in his throat. It overtakes him with a bit of hysteria, leaving him with tears in his eyes and his chest aching while his lungs protest. He can only imagine the blond on the other end in a similar state, leaned back and laughing hard enough that he's likely disrupting the sleep of everyone else in the building.

In the background there's a commotion. Some shuffling around, a few different voices posing questions and some particularly annoyed grumbling. He can still hear Steve, wheezing a little and trying to apologize through his guffawing.

_"Sorry, James, I'm sorry." _A pause. _"Barton. No. I can't imagine that's the case. No. No." _He pauses between each sentence, probably answering some line of questioning. _"We would have to ask Shuri. It's likely." _

"Cap, I hate to interrupt." He settles the black and gold outfit on the floor beside him, digging further into the box to pull out a thick black case. He can hear Laura, telling him _you need to be sure that this team is a team. _"But I'd like to get real familiar with this situation real soon."

_"We're already on it. I guess you better suit up."_

**_Outside the Circinus Galaxy  
_**_2018_

Nebula doesn't care.

She doesn't care about the trillions of people dead - more accurately, gone, because death is much more gruesome than what she witnessed - or the war she missed out on or Gamora's death or the Gaurdians being wiped out in mere moments. She doesn't care about the planets and galaxies they've blown through, or the turmoil they must be experiencing. And she certainly does not care even a little bit about the _stupid pathetic little man _who has just been sitting and tinkering with the thing on his chest and staring silently ahead since they boarded the ship. What she does care about is not experiencing a fiery and undeserved death because of his tinkering, and the little mechanical noises and bursts of sparks back there are really throwing her off of her game.

"Are you at all capable of _stopping _just for a mere _moment _or is it purely within human nature to be annoying?" She shoots a nasty look back at him.

For the first time in - well, he isn't sure how long - Tony looks up at her and blinks slowly. "I'm fixing -"

"Your toy, yes," Nebula rolls her wrist in a vague gesture, jerking her head back toward the navigator. "I understand this and you are wasting time."

"Wasting time." Tony balks, straightening his back and frowning at her. "I'm sorry, did you have any better ideas for how I should spend my time, here? Because if I'm not mistaken we just got our _asses _handed to us on a silver platter, and if you have any better ideas for what I should be doing I am all ears."

Tony is pretty sure she would be rolling her eyes at him if she could. "You are the one who wanted a plan. You make one." She gestured to the expanse of space ahead of them. "I will get us to your home planet, you will find a new, ugly toy, and we will destroy Thanos and the rest of my siblings as I should have years ago."

"Listen, I get it, you want revenge. But if I have to spend another ten minutes hearing about your _raging _daddy issues, I'm going to personally throw myself into the vast reaches of space and put myself out of my misery."

"You are lucky your guts were not spilled on Titan earthling." She says the last word as if it is an insult. "Work on your _stupid _plan, or I will release you into space to be devoured by the old gods themselves."

Tony shuts up. Mostly because he thinks she actually might do just that and he's sure there's a reason he's still alive, so. He's sure Strange wouldn't have given up his own life or the Time Stone for no reason. And, sure, maybe it's a little narcissistic to assume he's that important in the greater run of the universe but it makes sense and he doesn't have much else to go off of.

So he shuts up, and he plans.


	3. Enervating

**_Upstate New York  
_**_2018_

Happy has seen a lot of things in his time. He's been Tony Stark and Pepper Potts' chauffeur and bodyguard, head of security and asset manager for Stark Industries - so it's not surprising that some, for lack of a better word, _shit _has come into his line of sight. Aliens, robots, one-armed men, flying vehicles, flying metal whales, two men with mechanical wings, dead agents, superhumans, people coming back from death and being frozen. Things that he hadn't even considered real for a very large portion of his life, things that still seem surreal even though he sees them on an almost daily basis now. All of this, all of these years as Tony's friend and following him into disaster after disaster, should have prepared him for anything.

_It should have, _he thinks, _but it didn't. _To be fair, he's not sure anything could have prepared him for watching so many people disappear like smoke in the air or some kind of sick magic trick. Now you see them, now you don't.

"I should have retired." He notes to no one in particular as he stares up at the Avengers Facility. The building looks foreboding in the shadow of recent events. He isn't sure what to expect, if anything. For a few extended moments he just stands there, looking at the white walls and long glass windows and the Avengers symbol tattooed on the side of the building like an advertisement. The idea of going inside without any clue as to what he's going to find is intimidating. "Home sweet home."

Forcing himself to step through the doors, Happy releases a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. Inside everything is silent, as still as a graveyard and just as uncomfortable. At first look it's empty, which. Well, it isn't all that shocking. After all, things have sort of gone to hell in a hand-basket so expecting some kind of grand welcome would have been unrealistic. He scuffs his feet on the floor and heads further into the facility, letting his feet lead him to one of the common rooms formerly inhabited by the Avengers.

"Welcome back, Mr. Hogan." The light voice coming into the room makes him jump, stumbling over his own foot and bringing a hand to his heart. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He could _swear _the artificial voice sounds amused. "You can't do that to people - you're likely to give someone, that someone being me, a heart attack."

"Your heart rate has increased by thirty percent and is currently lowering. In the event of a heart attack -"

"Okay! Okay." Happy drags a hand down his face, shaking his head.

When the female voice doesn't chime in again, he goes back to wandering the building and listening to his own footsteps bounce off of the walls. Each door leads to an empty room, empty beds and abandoned tables. The only room that has any sign of recent life in it is Helen Cho's, where papers are scattered across her desk and littered unceremoniously across the floor and a half-consumed cup of coffee has gone cold. He wavers in the doorway for a beat, then two before he finally decides to go through the threshold.

He collects the scattered papers, eyes skimming over them in search of some answered to his unasked questions. Most of it goes straight over his head, though. Something about implants into the body that would push out regenerative tissues in the events of emergencies, and synthetic materials that won't dissolve or degrade over time when in contact with specific acids - that's about all he can get out of it. He dumps the papers back onto her workspace and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

Finally resigning himself to what has to be done, Happy sighs heavily. "FRIDAY?"

"Is there something I can assist you with?"

"Where is everyone?"

A pause, as if the program needs to actually consider this. "Would you like the last known locations of all current employees of Stark Industries and residents of the Avengers Facility aside from yourself? I can have a list displayed in the lab on floor 2B, ready for your review."

"What - no, God, _no._" Shaking his head, the slightly horrified man heads out of the room and looks up at the ceiling to give the nearest camera his least amused look. "Not everyone. Just the important ones." Realizing how bad that sounds, he hunches his shoulders and tries again. "Why don't we start with Tony?"

"The Boss was last tracked somewhere over New York with the Little Insect."

"Little Insect?" Happy furrows his brow in confusion. "What is that?"

"Alternative titles would be: Young Hercules, Teen Trouble, and The Kid. They were giving the Iron Spider its first test run."

Surprised, the man does a double-take. "Where are they now?"

"Their trackers are currently out of range. I believe they were last on a ship heading into space. There has been radio silence for over forty-eight hours and seventeen minutes."

Happy _really _doesn't like the sound of that. "What about Pepper?"

"Pepper was last located in downtown New York. Her tracker went offline at the time of the Incident." And then, as if it's going to help, "Surveys of the area indicate that she will not be home in time for dinner."

It's not the news he wanted. Happy swallows past the lump in his throat, rubbing at his eyes as he considers the state of his two best friends. For years, they've been all he's had and now... It's just him. He visibly deflates, leaning into one of the walls of the hallway. Without Tony and Pepper he isn't sure where to go from here. He knows what he should do, what he would do if this were happening under slightly less bizarre circumstances, but it certainly doesn't fit the situation now. Not when the news is blaring out half finished reports of New York being attacked (again) and the population dying in the blink of an eye. No one has even tried to explain it past another out-of-this-world encounter that they are clearly not on the winning side of.

"- more significant than expected. Doctor Selvig has been reviewing video footage and attempting to assess potential causes of the Incident and catalog general losses." FRIDAY is still talking. He must have been tuning her out. Is it rude to ignore an AI? Happy is pretty sure it still is, even if he isn't all that knowledgeable about technology. "He is currently stationed on floor 4B, under lockdown."

After a few moments of consideration Happy decides it can't get much worse than it already is. "Better tell him he has incoming."

**_Wakanda  
_**_2018_

"All I'm sayin'," Rocket snarls at them all from his position on the countertop and crosses his arms. His expression is tight, angry. "Is you bums are just sittin' on your _asses. _Maybe that's how you do things here on Earth but on my team we _did things._"

Steve sighs from his seat at the table, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes as he regards the raccoon. He's been going off like this for over an hour, clearly getting stir-crazy from the few days they've been rooted in Wakanda trying to form an idea of where to go from here. The Incident has left a lot of them understandably torn and on edge, handling it in their own ways, but he could really do without listening to an hour of angry sputtering from a talking tiny bandit. The whole situation feels surreal, like an out of body experience.

Rhodey hasn't moved from his spot across the room, not even taking the time to spare them a glance. His face is set in a hard frown, the lines around his eyes and forehead seeming to grow more prominent by the day. The past two years look like they're taking their toll, now, weighing him down with the sharp pain in his lower spine and the metal permanently in his bones.

Seated beside Steve, Natasha is giving her little silver flip phone a dirty look; expecting a call that clearly has not come yet. If she's not lurking and glaring at that phone she's been plastered to him or Bruce, making vague conversation and handwaving them when they try to get her to do anything more than that. Bruce, bless his heart, has gotten chewed out twice already for not letting her avoid the things happening around them. Steve is at least smart enough not to ask until she cools off a little, not wanting her to direct that look on him. That glare could melt off skin and the agent herself can be pretty damn intimidating when she sets herself to it. She _is_ \- or was - an Avenger. Super soldier or not, he values his life enough not to toe the line with her right now.

"And you're still doing it!" The little beast throws his hands up, pacing on the counter and curling his lip. His claws click on the surface, a sharp _tick-tick-tick_ in the air. "Just staring at me like there's nothing better to be doing. That wrinkled old radish demolished everyone -"

"I'm sorry." Natasha breaks before the rest of them not looking the least bit apologetic, eyes narrowing as she looks up at him. "When did our leader morph from a sensible human being into an oversized rodent?"

"That's real big, sweetheart." Rocket sneers at her, pointing a finger accusingly. "It's not like any of you are leading this ragtag group of incompetents, don't act like you're automatically the superior species here."

"Getting a word in has been pretty impossible since we got back here." She responds dryly, settling the phone on the table and leaning on her elbows. "Have you ever heard of a road kill? If not -"

"Nat." Steve interjects quickly, reaching a hand to her upper arm. She looks at him from the corner of her eye and he can practically hear her teeth grinding as she settles back. He retracts his hand and turns his gaze to the raccoon again. "Rushing into this the way we did last time isn't going to work, we've seen that."

Rocket sniffs and looks between them, clearly thinking over his next words. Whatever argument he had is defused when Thor enters the room. It's like the man is a sponge, sucking every bit of anger out of him and turning him into a decent being. He does give them the finger one last time before dropping to sit on the edge of the counter and storming out of the room entirely. The Norse god only stops him for a moment with quiet words and directs him to the east hall, saying something about _tools _and _communication devices fit for longer distances. _It's safe to assume that he's going to gather something for Shuri and Bruce and then rejoin them in their work, as he has on-and-off the past few evenings.

"I see we are all remaining friendly." The larger blond looks more tired than Steve has ever seen him. He didn't realize the guy had limits, but that probably came along with the whole 'losing your father and brother and your entire society' sort of thing. _I get it, _he thinks. "I have prepared us a feast."

The idea of Thor, the man currently carrying an axe around on his waist like it's nothing, potentially wearing an apron and making a dinner sounds ludicrous. Steve is beginning the wonder if maybe he's dreaming.

As if reading his mind, Rhodey cranes his head over to look at them with raised eyebrows. "What planet are we on, again?"

Thor looks disappointed, dejected, like a kid being denied a new toy or a candy bar. Steve thinks back to sitting and staring at a plate of Shawarma, watching everyone eat and feeling so exhausted he nearly fell asleep with a bite of food in his mouth. He remembers Thor looking at Bruce and the two of them nodding, he remembers the way Tony slouched back in his chair because he could hardly hold himself up, he remembers Natasha and Clint on their side together holding a conversation that cost them no words. He misses it, misses when things were just a little bit simpler. Judging by the look on Thor's face, he does too.

Steve thinks of better times, and pushes himself to his feet and aims a steady look at their other companions. He nudges the woman to his left until she does the same, looking thoroughly disgruntled. He waits patiently until Rhodey sighs and gets to his feet as well, making for the door and at least making an effort to rub the sour look from his face.

"Thank you, Thor." Steve doesn't quite smile, can't force his features into something that smooth right now, but the other man grins wide enough for both of them. "I'm sure we would _all_ appreciate that, it's been a long few days."

Grinning, the Adgardian claps a hand on his shoulder and guides them toward the door. For a few moments, everything is calm. Quiet. Peaceful. If not for their dwindling numbers, it might even feel like they hadn't a terrible no good very bad day. It's not right, it's not perfect, but it's something and Steve is willing to claw for everything - every inch, every moment - that they can get before things fall apart again.

**_Aerie_**  
_2018_

The Shi'ar as a people have never been the most desirable company in the universe. It's not that they are especially unlikable or unapproachable, but their militaristic ancestry, desire for nothing but the utmost loyalty, and strict systems leave something to be desired. They've been in the middle of wars for longer than anyone can remember, either negotiating (demanding) peace or having a hand in forcing one party or another to back down. So it's understandable, really, that many people regard them as a bit... _severe. _The hesitation to get caught up in a web of affairs with them is to be expected, but typically impossible to avoid.

Not that they're particularly _unwelcoming _either, though. Even now, twenty-five years later and half fused with a Kree, Carol Danvers finds herself being allowed to drift on the edge of their society and observe the high structure and light figures. Despite any misgivings regarding the Kree half of her, they've allowed her to take up a slice of their life here in Aerie. It's more than she can say for any others - the Shi'ar aren't exactly inviting people for extended stays on their planet, even if they find themselves inhabiting plenty of others and moving outside of the Shi'ar Galaxy.

_Although not residing here might be by choice, _she decides after a moment of surveying her surroundings again. The half of her that knows this place - these people, this life - feels immensely guilty the minute the thought takes up a corner of her mind. They've been decent to her, allowing her to come and go as she pleases and providing her access to their superior technologies in an attempt to hone her skills and keep one eye on the Kree Empire and the Greater Magellanic Galaxy. Still... it's like there's a taste of trouble bordering the utopia, making it impossible not to feel like she's looking through stained glass.

"We had such dreams."

In front of her, standing and looking out over the city and the slowly moving water, is Lilandra. The feathered crest on her head and the silver cloak attached at her collarbone catch the light, making it hard to focus on her more humanoid features. She looks more like a bird than ever, with the sky cradling the edges of her silhouette and her chin pointed upward. The black markings around her eyes seem to emphasize the harshness of her expression, the lines drawing attention to the downturn of her eyes and brows. She looks like a painting, so still aside from the twitch of her lips that it almost isn't real.

"So many, turned to dust before our very eyes." There's a pause, and the taller avian woman faces her with a frown. "You know why I have come from Chandilar?"

Carol lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "I had assumed... Leaving the throneworld isn't really a common occurrence, but under the circumstances I was expecting at least a visit."

"Good. Your Terran brain has yet to fail you." Her tone is flat but the glint in her eyes is near amusement. "Once more, it seems you must return to Earth. If your warning was any indication." When she nods, Lilandra continues. "I must remain here, for the sake of the Empire. You have no plans in the foreseeable future, yes?" She doesn't wait for an answer before continuing. "I expect if you cannot handle this _situation _I will hear of it quickly."

There's a warning behind her words, discreetly lining the pitch of her voice. It's not surprising. Carol is sure she still has eyes somewhere on Earth, watching. Waiting. It's foreboding, knowing that even behind peace treaties and quiet spaces there are plans she has no knowledge of. She should probably be a little offended, considering how quickly she relayed the message of Fury's S.O.S. to the throneholder of the Shi'ar, but. That's fine. She's not offended at all. Not even a little. Not even the _tiniest ittiest bit._

"You will take one of our starships."

Carol's protest starts automatically. "That's not necessary. You know I can travel just as quickly and with less notice by myself, it's safer to -"

"You _will_ take one of our starships." Lilandra gives her the kind of stern look a disapproving mother might, as if she's one of her personal hatchlings. "They are equipped with force fields, cloaking devices, and long distance audio and video communication systems."

Which means they can (and likely will) be keeping an eye on her as well. Carol is shocked the woman hasn't asked her to install a Stargate on Earth, so they have more instant access but... She makes a note to check the ship for anything specific before she leaves regardless. Still, she's grateful. The Shi'ar have looked after her well.

"Thank you, Lilandra."

"You assisted in restoring me to my throne, I should hope I can return the favor." That same mildly amused look crosses her face and she looks Carol up and down deftly. "Besides, your clothing is not built to withstand entering Earth's atmosphere. I would hate for you to arrive under dressed."

Running a hand through her blonde hair, Carol heaves out something between a laugh and a sigh. "You always do have my best interests in mind."

"As I should." Lilandra turns away from her, waving one hand dismissively. "You are free to go. May Sharra and K'ythri deliver you well."

Knowing better than to crack some joke about heartfelt goodbyes, Carol nods again at her back and retreats. The older woman wouldn't have understood and the effort would have been a waste, anyway. Within an hour, the woman once known as Captain Marvel is ready to leave. There's no one to bid farewell to, and doing an inspection of the ship (and ditching some unnecessary additions to the cargo) doesn't take long enough to make a dent in her trip time.

It's been a couple decades since she had to fly anything, but slipping into the pilot's seat is like coming home. It makes her think of her time in the Air Force, of the opportunity she had being allowed to be one of the first female combat pilots. It makes her think of think of fighting against a fast rising prodigy named Rhodes, and Jeannie Leavitt, of Howard Stark's death and of Nick Fury. The nostalgia comes mixed with worry, a reminder of the Incident and situation at hand.

Absently, she pulls the pager from one of her pockets. The little piece of plastic is only slightly more advanced than the ones that were actually being sold in the nineties. This one is a SHIELD prototype, though it's easier to assume the base for it came from Stark or one of the other geniuses they managed to recruit. She's really not sure how it even managed to send her a message from so far away, isn't sure if sending one back is even going to be worth it by the time she arrives. In the end, she figures it's worth a shot.

**214 - RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE.**

**324 - C U SOON.**


	4. Draining

**_Exitar  
_**_2018_

"This is... underwhelming."

It's not that Loki isn't excited to see the remaining Asgardians and members of the Sakaaran Rebellion it's just... He was expecting more of them. Their strength certainly doesn't come with their numbers and it's likely that most of them will be useless anyway but it's still a bit discouraging.

They've dwindled down to ninety-eight Asgardians after Hela's slaughter and their capture by Thanos and, most recently, the Incident. Thousands of lives lost in such a short span of time. Asgard had been made to house ten times that, even if they never got anywhere near doing so. Their lifespans being as long as they are, reproducing at a faster rate would be sort of alarming and a recipe for disaster. Maybe if other species had managed to understand the threat of overpopulation and were less inclined to being crammed into such small spaces, they wouldn't be where they are now. Not that he's blaming them - though of course he sort of _is _\- but he's pretty sure reducing their numbers so drastically while still leaving millions of humans wandering around Midgard is unfair.

Loki is fairly sure there are more of them out there, somewhere, at least. Heimdall had been discreetly shuttling people to and fro for long enough that he had to have gotten some of them safely away, maybe even somewhere on Midgard waiting for them. And that's not to mention the ones stationed around the Nine Realms to keep their eyes open and maintain order.

Watching them, taking in their expressions as they take in his not-deceased state, reminds him of Thor. He would be horrified to see their numbers dipped so low, grieving endlessly for the members of their home that they were incapable of saving. Loki has always known who was coming. They never stood a chance, they had been spread so thin. It occurs to him rather suddenly that he doesn't even know if his brother is still living. Death does not discriminate. The Infinity Stones certainly don't either. It would be ironic, after everything, if he was the one who ended up being gone.

Still... Loki likes to think he would just sort of know, if the other man were dead. He thinks he should be able to feel it, a whisper of dread in the pit of his stomach the same way there was when they watched Odin take his last breaths on Midgard. It's the symbolism of it all that matters, something likely lost on many of them.

"Hello, it's just me, excuse me. Just a question, a little inquiry if you will." Korg is raising a hand like a child in a lesson, causing pebbles to fall from his shoulder to the floor. The sound grates on his nerves unexpectedly. "What was the plan, again?"

Loki thinks he hates the Kronan, just a little. He would kill for company like Frigga or Lorelai or even Lady Sif right now. Brunnhilde is the only totally tolerable one here, and she certainly isn't his biggest fan. Not that she should be, anyway. Miek isn't bad either, but that's probably because he doesn't talk or communicate at all outside of these high chattering and grumbling noises. And Loki likes that, thinks he can relate to the disconnect there.

"I think I heard 'let's visit the same exact place a homicidal Titan was last spotted' - which sounds terrible, by the way." Brunnhilde snorts at his right hand side, doing her best imitation of him. It's not bad. A little nasally, but. Better than most, so he'll take what he can get.

In front of him, Biff grimaces and grumbles. "Bad plan."

"What do you think?" Korg nods to his smaller, insectoid companion. The bug looks up at him thoughtfully, then sinks closer to the floor. "Miek agrees."

Of course he would. Miek is officially out of his goos graces. The Norse god gives them all an ugly look. He's really not sure how or when he get to this point, trying to argue over a plan with a bunch of former Sakaaran slaves who wouldn't know a good plan if it bit their asses. He's better than this, surely. Even the former Valkyrie isn't trying to help, allowing him to struggle with their other companions and their lack of desire to cooperate. She looks borderline amused. The other Asgardians don't look very keen on following him into the fray either and all he's asked them to do so far is journey the rest of the way to Earth.

"Have any of you even spared a thought of what is to happen next?" When no one responds, he continues with a sneer. "Of course you haven't. You're too busy sitting and _sniveling_, burrowed into your holes of self pity, to even consider a next move. Did you think this stopped here?"

Behind Korg and Biff an Asgardian steps forward, all soft features of bright eyes. He looks significantly younger than most of them, just now growing into his features and long hands. He can't be more than a few centuries old, if that. "You expect us to trust you." It's a statement, not a question, so Loki stays silent. "Asgard might be standing tonight, if not for you."

There's no good argument against that. Loki isn't an idiot; he knows some of the blame for the loss of their home falls on him. There's no avoiding it.

Knowing what Thanos is capable of, having even the slightest inkling of his plan, he should have been preparing for this. He should have tried. Instead of arranging dramatic works to honor his false death and celebrate his brother, he could have been keeping watch on the Nine Realms. He could have consulted his father, when things started to go awry, instead of leaving him to fade on Earth. He could have - should have, probably - been more observant and less wrapped up in some idealistic form of revenge. He could have done more, been more than just a trickster. Things could have been different, Loki knows that.

But it's too late for 'could have's and 'should have's. They have better things to be putting their attention toward, things to be preparing for.

"You would not be standing here tonight, if not for him." Brunnhilde cuts in, inspecting the dirt under her nails. "None of us would."

Loki shoots her a suspicious look. She's one of the last people he expected to come to his defense, she hasn't exactly been very helpful to his attempts up to this point. She doesn't spare him a glance, but there's a stiffness in her shoulders and something cold in her eyes. _She sympathizes with me. Pities me, perhaps. _The thought strikes him as funny, but not entirely unexpected. He had peeked into her mind, seen the last flight of the Valkyries and her decision to abandon their people all those years ago. It hadn't much occured to him that she could see where he was coming from, having stood in his shoes once. He'll have to remember this, use it to his advantage in the future. _Noted._

The other Asgardian falters, looks between them. Probably intimidated by the nasty sneer Brunnhilde has held for what is likely an eternity. It's understandable; the mark on her arm casts her as a Valkyrie and they're not to be crossed. "You're saying you trust him?"

"She's saying," Loki intervenes before this conversation has the chance to take a worse turn that it already has. "You have very few options outside of that. The Allfather is gone. My brother is... indisposed."

He looks around at their ragtag group, takes a breath and tries to dig deep _deep _down in an effort to pull some bit of his father or brother out of himself. He pulls at the appeasing and quietly deceptive words of Odin, the whispers of agreement and care and peace and something bigger than any of them. He yanks at the strings of moronic selflessness and unwavering loyalty Thor reflects. Everything about it feels foreign in his chest and on his tongue, playing a part to convince them his way is the best even if he doesn't know it for sure.

"Asgard was never about the place - it is about the people." It's a line pulled directly from Odin's mouth and he thinks of when Hela said he spoke like him. "I am not the Allfather but our people have brought peace to the Nine Realms before under his fist - since the Great Beginning. Now I would ask you to do the same under mine. Avoiding this war will give us no peace, though the spears may spare you."

Silence drifts over the room. Loki lets his shoulders fall back, chin lifting as he grows more comfortable in this role. He'd never been able to best Thor physically, but this is where he stands on sure footing. This mental and verbal game is where he thrives. He allows something soothing to slide over his tongue, weaving into his words as he continues. And if he lets his the pitch and drop of his words fall into something more akin to his father's time - well, that's just a _fine _coincidence.

"I met the ice in Jotunheim, I was raised under the sun in Asgard under the hand of Odin. I am neither Jotun not Asgardian, not truly. So call me what you will - Laufeyson, Odinson - but I have moved past my fractured delusions." He tells himself that this is okay to say, seeing as it's not a total lie. "I ask that you look past what _has _happened and look to what _will _happen, what _is _happening. I do not care to be your King, I do not care to have your love or approval. I have no endgame, here. All I desire is... restoration. Retribution."

As if in an offering of peace, the dark haired man spreads his hands in front of him, palms up.

To his right, Brunnhilde seems to be inspecting him closely. Maybe with disbelief, maybe with annoyance, like she knows he game he's playing. All of it is to be expected, they've had a pretty rocky go of it so far. After a few distended moments, she jerks her head back forward to stare at the last of their people. There's a pause, just a second, where Loki thinks they're still going to meet him with contempt and their gazes are going to be able to see through the places where he's bent the truth to pick him apart.

_This is fitting, _he decides after beat.

"I'm sorry," It's Korg again, squinting at him with something very close to embarrassment. "I don't think I understood any of that."

Loki is sure, now. He absolutely _does_ hate the Kronan. He's totally ruined the impact of his speech - undermined the very core of it. As someone who is very invested in the arts and the delivery of these things, he's a little offended. Or maybe incredibly offended. He lifts a hand, forefinger and thumb rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he tries to decide whether or not the situation is capable of being salvaged at this point. He should just take the ship, pilfer some supplies from the space colony and leave all of the ungratefuls on Exitar and spend the rest of his time -

"When do we leave?"

In his surprise, he lets his hand drop and turns to find that Brunnhilde has turned to him entirely, expression set with a raised brow and her hip cocked. The look on her face doesn't leave any question as to whether or not she - and that ship, and likely the members of the Sakaaran Rebellion with her - will be leaving. She's a sight, all sharp determination and a force to be reckoned with.

He is not at all surprised when no one steps forward to argue against her. The Valkyrie were something to be feared, in their time, and stories of them have traveled and been passed down since their end. Briefly, he reflects on all of the things he had heard of them when they were just children. He can recall gushing with Thor about them, listening to stories from Frigga. He'd admired them, though not going _quite _so far as Thor in his desires to be one of them. They were too close to the sun, their beasts were not his fans, and being almost directly under the thumb of someone else never appealed to him. He could have pulled off their outfits, at least, but that's about as far as that goes.

"As soon as we can." Loki finally delivers, looking thoughtful. "I have no idea how long the trip will take, like this. Not that time is much of a concern, now..." And then, low enough that he hopes no one else can catch it, "What changed your mind, _fogl_?"

She barks a laugh and claps him on the shoulder much harder than necessary, forcing him to lurch forward. He tries not to be bothered by this. "I'm only tagging along to watch this blow up in your face, _ormr._"

**_The Andromeda Galaxy_****  
**2018

It's impossible to tell how much time has passed.

Without any kind of clock - at least not any that read in numbers or characters familiar to him - or night or day everything blurs and blends at the edges. Time seems to drag. One hour sticks to another, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. They hardly seem to be moving. In fact, Tony is sure he's been staring at the same collection of stars and planets clustered outside of the view ports for the past, well, however long they've been moving through space. Sleeping only makes the whole thing more disorienting when he struggles to figure how long he's been out for, how many minutes he's risked his life by letting his guard down when there's no telling what's coming next.

For what it's worth, Nebula doesn't seem interested in helping him pass the time. She's content to sit in silence, navigating them through various patches of meteors and carefully slipping by other beings drifting in space.

This leaves Tony with a lot of time, and nothing to occupy it. He tries tinkering with his suit, for a while. But there's no familiar parts to go fixing it, and he's not willing to risk destabilizing the part of the suit that's holding together the wound in his abdomen. It is sort of his only hope, once again, which isn't nearly as surprising or funny as it should be. He would jokingly refer to it as a crutch, but the statement feels almost too accurate and a little uncomfortable. It makes him think of Pepper, who has compared his Iron Man life to an addiction and insists it's going to be what kills him. _She's not wrong, _he concedes.

When he finds himself at a loss on the suit, Tony thinks. He thinks of Pepper, and his broken promise of being done with this life, wonders if she's still where he left her. Rhodey, probably unsure and waiting and searching for him like he did years ago in Afghanistan. Happy, probably all alone and at a loss for what to do. He thinks of Nick Fury, proposing the Avengers to him and seeking him out in the barn of the Barton homestead. Which makes him think of the Bartons, too, of their picturesque life that he keeps digging his fingers into and interrupting with life altering events. Natasha, her secretive smiles and light words with dark suggestions behind them. Wanda and Vision - at least one of whom is definitely gone now, the other likely in a state of grief he can't hope to put a stop to.

He thinks of Steve, hovering over him with half a mind to dislodge his head from his body. He thinks of the shield sitting inside the Avenger's Facility in New York, of the way their friendship crashed and burned, of the unintended betrayal and unspoken lies. Of James Barnes who, well, he hardly knows but still kind of wants to punch in the face. Who can blame him, really? Even if he's not the Winter Soldier - and he _is, _brainwashing or no it's a part of him now - he still played a part in the disruption of his life, it's hard to look past. But he thinks he will one day, in the future, when he can breathe properly again.

He thinks of Thor - who might not even know what's happening, now, who might be mourning as much as he is. And of Bruce, all tight anxious smiles probably overtaken by Big Mean and Green. Sam, who is probably pushing through this with more jokes than he can hold. He thinks of Strange and Peter and the Guardians who drifted into nothingness in front of him, all the things they deserved but never got to see.

Eventually, Tony has to force himself to stop thinking.

It's too much. His breath catches in his throat and his hands shake and he has to push the heels of his hands into his eyes to fend off the incoming migraine and push back the wetness in his gaze. He can feel his heart pounding in his fingertips and throat, hear his blood rushing through his ears. It's like everything stops. Like the universe has frozen around him to provide him with just a few moments to absorb his grief. Tony's lungs burn and his throat feels tight and _Christ_ could he go for a drink right about now. There's a long lapse in time where he sits like that, hunched with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his face while he tries to steady himself. He's sure he hears Nebula making some noise of unimpressed distaste, but it's hard to come up with something witty to say to her.

Once he's got himself under control enough that his hands don't shake like he's been submerged in ice, he occupies himself with digging through the contents of the garishly colored ship instead. The inside is the same orange as the outside, spotted with yellows and darker colors in the same range, bits of light blue highlighting things that are either important or dangerous but it's hard to tell which when everything looks at least a little dangerous.

"If you don't stop rooting through things - things that are _not yours_, for that matter - you're likely to blow a hole in the hull." On cue, Nebula looks over her shoulder to give him an annoyed look. "You're impossible."

Tony makes a face where he's hunched over an assortment of wires and circular contraptions, rolling one around in his hand. It looks suspiciously like a yo-yo "That seems incredibly unlikely. Do you know what this is?"

Without looking up or moving, the man holds up the grey and yellow device in one hand. Nebula heaves a sigh. "A Vrellnexian gas grenade. If you activate it we will be incapacitated for at least sixteen hours and this ship will probably crash into a meteor and kill both of us."

"Good to know." He lifts his head to stare at the grenade, taking note of the light indentation on one side of it before he moves it aside for later use. "So... Vrellnexians?" It sounds off coming off his tongue, like it doesn't fit, and he isn't sure he's said it right. "Are they known for these?"

"No. They are known better for their stench." Nebula's tone is so monotonous that he isn't sure if she's joking or not. "They are like your Terran dogs, though admittedly more coriaceous."

Giving a nod in response, Tony redirects his attention back to the bin he's been exploring. He finds two more of them settle in the bottom of the container he's found and puts them with the first.

His companion makes a face as she watches him, but doesn't say anything. They spend some time like this, with Tony presenting her with various objects and asking what they are. With a surprising amount of patience, Nebula provides him with names and descriptions. Gravity mines, pulse wires, ice mines, shock grenades, pulse grenades, energy cores from various places, a Necroblaster, the Hadron Enforcer, constrictors, a blowtorch, the Pink Panther - Tony eventually has to start an inventory, listing everything off to himself as he reorganizes it. He's not really surprised the former owners of the ship didn't have any sort of system for their storage but it is kind of a pain in his back.

Eventually, Nebula cranes her neck to look over her shoulder at him to announce that they're stopping. Surprised, Tony moves away from his new project to look out of one of the view ports. Their scenery has still hardly changed, and they certainly aren't close to any planets he recognizes. The closest is a range of oranges and has clusters of grey wreckage orbiting it.

"We're not there yet." Tony points out, frowning. "I'm not sure if you know this, but Earth doesn't look like that."

"I did not need you to point out the obvious." Nebula would be rolling her eyes, if she could. "That is Klyntar. And that," she tips her chin to another window, showcasing something u-shaped and silver. "Is the Kariteth Spaceport."

Before he can interrupt to ask questions about either of these things, Nebula is moving around him and going through the recently organized array of contraptions. She nabs something with a faint light emitting from it out of a crate and then retrieves a shock grenade as well. Both items are shoved into his arms as she marches toward the back of the ship to grab a gun, pointing at the unidentified object in his hands.

"Put that on." When she receives a dubious look in response, she sighs hard. "Holographic Space Suit." When he doesn't budge, her expression shifts to a scowl. "What could it _possibly _be this time?"

Tony shoves the grenade into his jacket pocket and looks between his Luphomoid companion and the silver spaceport in the near distance. Instead of stating the obvious, which is that they are likely going to draw a lot of unwanted attention to themselves, he offers her a crooked grin and lifts his shoulders, wearing an expression that Pepper would have called either devilish or disgusting. "I don't know how to put this on. Help me?"

"Absolutely _not._"

_**Kariteth Spaceport**_  
_2018_

Nebula doesn't like people. She's not sure she ever has, or ever will. Which is fine. She was never placed in the universe to befriend people, never wired quite right for things like interactions and caring and wanting - things like that evade her, move through her fingertips any time she makes an attempt to grasp them.

"So what's on this spaceport?" Tony Stark has not stopped talking for a second since they stepped off of the ship and into Kariteth.

"People. Materials. Weapons. Fuel"

"Which of those things are we here for?"

"Fuel. And a person." At the pressing look she's receiving, she continues. "We are looking for someone specific."

"Now we're getting somewhere. Who are we looking for?"

Nebula rubs at her temple and wonders if she's capable of getting headaches or if there's something wrong with the circuitry in her skull. "A mutate. Haze Mancer."

"That's really two-thousand-and-five." Tony says, as if she should understand any of his awful references to human culture. "Very scene. Does she have any friends? Ebony? Echo? Onyx? Envy?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "What does that mean?"

"They're names." He insists. They don't sound like real names. She's pretty sure he's pulling her leg. "Nevermind," he says, but keeps talking anyway. "It was a big thing for teenagers a few years ago, everyone was coming out of raves... What's a mutate?"

"A being who is exposed to mutagenic agents." She holds up a hand to halt him before he even speaks. "I do not know what happened and I do not care to know. _Some _of us have boundaries."

Tony just shrugs. "Fine, that's fair."

Nebula tunes him out when he starts to go on a tangent about the crusty state of the place. She's one hundred percent sure everything coming out of his mouth is irrelevant to their current mission, and he's easy to ignore now that she's gotten used to the tone of his voice and the slant to his words. He talks enough for the both of them, as if not talking him is going to cause some sort of horrid downward spiral and he's never going to be able to properly function and communicate again. It's exhausting, she can't keep up with half of the things he's saying anyway.

The Kariteth Spaceport hasn't changed in the past decade. Aside from the metal not aging well. There are spots where the floor is red with rust - or old blood, perhaps, but hopefully rust - and doors that scrape metal on metal when they raise to open. It is, she notices, quieter than it was. This doesn't go unnoticed by her human follower, either. She watches him look around and duck his head into rooms, a line drawn between his brows.

"Where is everyone?"

"This section of the galaxy is very remote. Few care to visit, this far out. Most of the inhabitants are raiders and criminals." Nebula shrugs lightly. "Klyntar has recently been caught in conflict, as well."

Briefly, the cyborg wonders if telling him more than is absolutely necessary is a good idea. Humans haven't reached out this far, yet. there's a lot he shouldn't know or see. A lot that probably shouldn't make it back to Earth, including the technology he's currently equipped with. But... Realistically, she decides, it can't _really_ hurt. He's going to die, if the grey shade to his face and the half-repaired hole in his abdomen say anything. And even if he doesn't, their partnership isn't going to last much longer. He's a means to an end. Just part of one of the terrible things Nebula is going to have to do to get back to Thanos.

They turn a corner and are met with the sharp sound of an ion gun heating up. Nebula lifts her own weapon, installed in her arm, in response. To her left, she can see Tony slowly dropping a hand to the grenade in his pocket.

The figure across from them is easily recognizable. He has what looks like quills coming from his jawline and hairline, yellow eyes rimed with black, and an old brown hat angled down on his head in an effort to somewhat conceal the long scar drawn over his face. His skin is almost sickly looking in its yellowness, similar in texture to leather. The green triangular sight on his gun stares back at her, their new companion too busy examining them to meet her gaze.

"Haze." Nebula says slowly, tipping her arm down.

"_This _is Haze?" Tony sounds mildly disappointed, mumbling like a child. "_He_ looks like a porcupine."

The man in front of them curls his lip in offense, but doesn't acknowledge Tony otherwise. Instead he looks to Nebula, a wide grin spreading over his face. It stretches his skin oddly, as if it doesn't really fit on his face. "If it ain't the meanest Luphomoid this side of Pluto. You rethinking my offer?"

"I am not interested in one of those partnerships." She deflects easily, shifting the topic. It's not worth her time or reconsideration. "We need weapons."

The man, Haze, sighs heavily. "Business has really slowed down, you know. Thought you'd be makin' my day." He lowers his weapon, rubs the back of his hand at his nose. "What are you in the market for this time? Ion blasters? Tazers? Nets? Melting sticks - though, the only one of those I have is... defective. Nabbed it from Sakaar a few years ago, never quite got to fixin' it."

As he's talking, the arms dealer starts leading them further down the hall, and then out past one of the market areas. There are only a few people lingering here, none of them humanoid. Tony tries, and fails, not to stare. He would probably be poking and prodding at them if not for Nebula's hard glare and the fact that they do have actual things to be retrieving from there. He leads them further into the spaceport after that, into a room where the door hangs crookedly and doesn't quite open all the way so they have to duck down,

Tony, being the shortest, has little issues with this. Nebula, as the tallest, has to hunch her shoulders and bend her knees to get through. The look she gives Tony when he laughs is enough to kill. Not that it's necessary, considering how quickly his mouth shuts when he looks around. The walls are lined with various weapons and protective gear, and there's a table set up in the middle with seven large petri dishes. Each one is filled with what looks to be a thick black gel, swirling and twisting in their containers.

Haze catches her line of sight and grins again, tapping a gloved hand on the top of one of the containers. The black thing inside spikes and shifts in response, pushes against it's confines. "You're sure you're not interested? A girl with all your enhancements..."

"Weapons." She says pointedly.

Holding his hands up in surrender, the mutate moves to the walls and begins to explain how the prices have risen with all of the recent events. He tells her that people are really going crazy, with all the calamity. Not just the issues on Klyntar, but with people just dropping off the face of the earth. Nebula simply shrugs, waving off most of the conversation in favor of handing over tokens and credits for her purchases.

"Ain't seen it myself, you know." Haze scratches at his chin as he examines her currency. "But I hear people are just out there - droppin' right off the face of universe. Personally, I think a bad batch is goin' around."

They're in the process of wrapping up when Tony, forgotten during their deal, lurches forward and attaches a hand to his abdomen. He stumbles once, twice, and crashes into the table in the center of the room. It protests under the newfound weight, the glass containers places there rocking against each other with a like windchimes. He's hunched over the surface, hissing and groaning and curling his fingers into the fabric of his clothes. Haze curses and Nebula braces a hand on her companion's shoulder, hauling him backward. He sways but doesn't fall, instead hunching forward and dropping his head.

He's sweating and his heart is pounding, Nebula notes as she holds him still. He might be getting an infection, maybe a fever. She wonders if she misjudged how long he has left or if he's really so incapable that this little excursion has worn him down.

"Your friend looks like he's gonna flop on my table." Haze looks vaguely disgusted by the frailty of him, upper lip raised and nose wrinkled. "Take a med pack and get him out of here before he goes contaminatin' my wares."

"Of course." She hauls her bag of goods over her shoulder, metal fingers tightening on the strap.

Tony looks up at her, expression full of mock adoration. "We're _friends?_" he asks, as she scoffs.

"No."

She starts to steer him from the room, one eye stuck on Haze as they step back. He's watching them, too, just a distrustful as she is. It's not shocking. They're both known criminals, you never know what to expect. Anyone can flip like a switch at anything, back out of deals or just plain shoot you in offense. The only difference is that he's a Minimal Threat Level and she's Universal. As soon as they clear the entrance and the door starts to shudder to life behind them to close, Tony makes what is probably considered a miraculous recovery.

"That went well. Ten out of ten alien arms deal." He ducks away from her hand easily. "We should probably get going, though, don't want to miss dinner. You can't be rancorous and vindictive all the time on an empty stomach."

He still has one hand in his pocket and one hand clasped to his injury but he's doing a fast walk now. He doesn't even ask which way to go, already half a corridor ahead of her in the right direction. Nebula, for the first time, finds herself surprised by Tony Stark. She quickly moves to catch up with him, ignoring the nagging feeling this will not be the last time he manages to do it. She thinks of all of his questions, of the way he went back and forth across the halls and inspected the rooms, and narrows her eyes at him in suspicion. In fact, she's kind of beginning to wonder if she just got played by a squishy _human_ and is losing her touch.

He seems to notice her staring as they approach their ship, pace not changing. "Problem, Diva Plavalaguna?"

"I don't know who that is." She snips, effectively shutting him down as she opens the boarding door and checks behind them to make sure Haze hasn't followed. "You are aware of this, and the fact that it is certainly not my name, and yet you persist."

"What can I say?" Tony slides past her moves into the main room of the Benatar. He sits, letting out a deep breath. "I've got a dedication to these jokes. One day, we'll have to sit down and introduce you to some cinematic genius."

Nebula watches him, suspicions still high as she settles into the ship and prepares for takeoff, trying to remember if there were six dishes on the metal slab in that room when they first entered.


	5. Fraught

**_Somewhere  
_**_?_

The past three years have been interesting for Scott Lang, to say the very least. Following his release from prison he mostly expected to have to entertain a number of minimum wage jobs, maybe put his degree in electrical engineering to use. He hadn't planned on getting back in the stealing game, really. He certainly hadn't expected to get caught and then coerced into doing _one _more one last job for the man who caught him. Or, set him up. Both are pretty accurate. Things had only gotten even weirder from there - becoming Ant Man, fighting with (and against, at the same time) the Avengers, landing himself in a super-prison before Captain America (Steve Rogers - the man, the myth, the legend) broke him out and he had to go on the run.

As much fun as living out a child's superhero runaway fantasy with one of America's icons was, though, it wasn't practical. There were a lot a things he never took into account, things he never thought he would miss or enjoy having every night. He had never thought about this sending Hope and Hank on the run, ruining their lives and business. Not being allowed to contact anyone with potential superhuman capabilities or technology. Missing out on the chance to see his daughter. The smile on Hope's face when he says something stupid. A warm bed to sleep in, no question, each night. Running water. Television.

So when they were caught... Scott wasn't particularly torn up over it. Especially when the government offered him a deal, giving him the option of letting them invade his life and putting him on house arrest instead of allowing him to run around playing superhero. It was a chance to have something normal, a chance to see Cassie regularly and not have to worry about all the things that could go wrong. The cherry on top of this icecream cake had been the deposits into his bank account, starting sometime in 2017 from a vague organization known as SHIELD, claiming it was compensation for his short lived run as part of the Avengers Initiative.

Not that Scott knows anything about that - other than the obvious involvement of the Avengers, as a team. He had never had the sense of mind to ask, if he's being honest. He has never thought to ask what came after. It was too easy to get caught up in helping Cap and his ragtag team of fugitives. Too easy to think of himself as one of the _team _there to help put things right when the Accords tried to put them all under the thumb of the United Nations.

It's all a moot point, now. Scott has to remind himself that he's here for something a _little _more important than things they've already built bridges to get over.

Around him, the Quantum Realm shifts. Harsh red spikes collide with grey masses, molding into something jagged that passes right over his head. He breathes, taking in the new environment moving around him as he harvests more quantum energy. The light on the tech Hank has granted with him fades from green to white, signalling it's full.

"Alright, beam me up Scotty."

_"Get ready. We'll count you down."_

"Take your time, really." Scott shifts back when he watches a carnivorous tardigrade a few yards away. Janet warned him about them, before entering. Luckily it moves on without taking note of him. "I'm having fun down here, sub-atomic with these enormous... slugs?"

Hope sighs. He can tell it's her by the amused inflection. _"They're closer to arthropods."_

"Uh..."

_"Insects, crustaceans." _Hank cuts in, giving a sigh of his own. _"Hope?"_

_"Five."_

Scott watches the colors morph and run over his head, feels the softness of the ground - can he even call it that, really? - under the boots of his suit. Underneath his feet it's green like grass, but thicker and spiked up like a gel. It doesn't move well, bends around his shoe when he steps on it. He imagines it feels cool, like jello. He thinks he'll ask Janet, later.

_"Four."_

Off in the distance a pale orange mass overtakes everything, taking command of the horizon and giving everything a hazy glow. He decides Hope might like this. She'd be fascinated, even if barely able to remember it once dragged out of the Quantum Realm. Even now, having gone in and out two other times - once, when his regulator broke, another time about a week back - he finds his memory of this place hazy. It's not a problem the oldest Pym woman has, though she doesn't talk to him about it much. He thinks that's a little unfair, given he's the one being tasked with going in. Hank's body can hardly take it, he won't allow Hope to go, and Janet doesn't seem keen on reentering herself.

_"Three."_

Taking into consideration the other's hesitation to go, maybe he should have a better sense of self preservation but... He trusts them, and this is something good he can do when the news shows alien attacks - that he _can't _get involved in, that Hope and Hank won't let him get involved in even if he could - and things seems to be going downhill. Ava needs this. Janet can't keep up the energy long enough with whatever quantum powers she holds to permanently fix her condition. It's a more long term recovery but... It's something. A start. Scott thinks that's enough for now, a start.

Another few seconds pass, the radio stays dead.

"Hope?"

Nothing. Scott rolls his eyes.

"Really funny, guys." Still, nothing. He takes a breath. "I get it, okay, this is payback. This is what I get for becoming almost seventy feet tall and sending you on the run and not destroying the suit. Fine. I can wait. You'll have to bring me back eventually, _I _have all the quantum energy."

Static. Scott feels his throat tighten. Something dangerous and cold creeps up his spine. He waits, breathes. He knows eventually their window of opportunity will close and he'll be stuck. They wouldn't just leave him, of course. He knows that. After everything, they wouldn't just abandon him there.

Moments - or maybe seconds, minutes, hours, it's so hard to tell with the deafening silence between the light to the left and the pure darkness to his right. He tries to be patient, really, he does. But it's hard to be patient when you know someone else was already trapped here for so long it forced her through some crazy form of evolution. Or maybe it mutated her? He's not sure either way. These are details he should have collected before he came in here, probably. He never thinks these things through, it's really starting to bite him in all the sensitive areas. When he checks the timer on his wrist, put in specifically for these excursions, his hearts sinks.

There's only a minute left.

"Come on, guys. This isn't funny at _all _now. If I know what comes before three all of you geniuses should. Two." He pauses, puts his hands on his knees. "Repeat after me: two. And then, after that? One. It's easy."

Again, nothing. Scott could scream. Cry. Vomit, maybe. He wishes he had stopped to see his Peanut before he came here. He wishes he had asked Luis to come with them, even if he had to whine just to convince the other involved parties it would be fine to even tell him where they were going.

"Hope?" He shudders through a breath, looking around him. In the edge of his peripherals he can see the darkness growing, sucking up everything. Their window is closing. "Hank? Janet? Guys? Guys!"

When the timer on his arm reaches zero, it buzzes against his wrist and the landscape shifts into blues and greens. Overhead, he can practically hear the tardigrades circling each other. Or maybe he's imagining that. Maybe it's just the sound of his own breath moving through his helmet. Distantly, he wonders if air is a concern here. Probably not, all things considered. It's not like the original Wasp had some kind of air filter.

Something crackles in the air (?) behind him, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and Scott whips around. There's a light blue light fading behind him, but nothing else. When he waves his hand through it, it tickles at his fingers and disappears. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to have any desire to linger. Just in case, he retreats a few steps before going back yo ignoring it.

The next time it happens, it's right in front of his face. A sharp crackle of energy and electricity in the air, leaving little sparks that dance along the edges of his helmet. The light slowly drifts away, then closer, then away again. Almost as if it wants him to follow. When he does not, it reappears in front of him with a sharp _pop! _that makes his ears hurt. Twice, thrice, by the fourth time he's trying to swat it away from him. As he steps away it follows, pushing him back.

"Listen, okay, that's rude. You're going to blind me - ow!" Realistically, he shouldn't be so bothered. It's just a light. A spark. He knows that. "Come on!"

That doesn't stop him from continuing to retreat until his foot hits nothing and he's cartwheeling through the air.

And then he's falling. Falling through a bright orange fog, watching as the blinking blue light and his only vehicle out of the Quantum Realm fade into the distance above him. Falling through sharp green crystals that burst like bubbles when they connect with his skin. Falling through the pitch black, seeing his reflection waving its arms frantically across from him. Falling right past the open maw of a tardigrade, and into nothingness. He feels like he's there for hours, days, suspended in the dark. The cord attached to his back, connecting him to his vehicle, stretches into the pitch black.

He thinks it must have snapped, when he fell. Not that he thinks Hank Pym would use anything but the best he could get his hands on but he also didn't think he would be stranded in the Quantum Realm any time soon. When he tries to move everything seems to be on a delay, his body feels extraordinarily heavily for someone floating (or maybe he is falling, still?) through time and space. He can't even open the pockets on his belt, his hands are full of pins and needles as if he's been laying on them. The feeling drags up panic from his gut, has him breathing quicker.

Somewhere above - or maybe it's ahead - of him, a pale blue light flickers. Taunting him, probably. He hates whatever it is.

Around him, the world shifts again. A burst of warm light followed by shards of silver. Everything is familiar, for just a moment. There are creases of light and mirrors everywhere, large plates of reflective glass showing him glimpses of himself. Or... not himself.

Scott sees himself years ago in prison, discreetly pocketing shower supplies from another inmate. And then younger, in his teens maybe, eyeballing a pair of shoes he can't afford before he finds himself swapping them out for the ones on his feet. Another, older version of himself with greying hair and what looks like a building model in his hands. The next features a woman he doesn't recognize in a red, blue, and gold uniform - he thinks she looks angry, but her face is turned out towards something he can't quite make out.

Past that is another him, much closer to his current age than any of the others, holding something small and glowing purple between two fingers. Something is off, here. Scott can feel it when he looks into his eyes and sees the hollowness there. His gloves are torn and flaking, falling off of the edges of his fingers. His suit is dirty, covered in what looks like ashes. His eyes are locked on that stone, looking almost haunted. And then his gaze shifts, locking onto him. _Him _him. The other him blinks, lets his lips raise into a smile, and closes his fist around the gem. And then he's gone, sucked in at the middle and disappearing.

With no warning, barely even a second to recognize the shift between mirrors and bright red hues surrounding him, Scott feels his back slam into something solid. It knocks the breath from his lungs, makes him curl in on himself. He sucks in air through his mouth, thick gasps that make him wonder if he was even breathing at all when he was suspended outside of time.

"Ow - wow - that was -" He goes to roll onto his side, feeling for the ground beneath him, only to feel a sharp tug on his back. "Awful. Really awful."

When he looks over his shoulder he sees the cable on his back leading some number of feet away to the exploration vehicle he brought in with him. It must not have snapped when he fell, although the cable is wound around itself. He looks around, then, taking in his surroundings. Nothing has changed. The timer on his wrist still sits at 00:00. The only noticeable difference is the lack of tardigrades overhead. The little blue light hovers on the edge of his vision, teasing him.

"_You're_ awful." Pointing at the light accusingly, he rolls to the other side to push himself to his feet. The ground beneath him shifts, squishes in under his hands and the world tilts for a moment. It turns his stomach. "I feel like I just woke up from a bad dream."

There's silence for a few minutes, as he pulls himself up and edges his way towards his vehicle. He's been trying to give it a solid name for weeks but Hank was having none of it. The HelicANTer? The Exploration Emmet? The dark metal transportation unit welcomes him with nothing. Almost nothing. There's a new web of cracks along the monitor on the inside, obscuring some of the information. But he could swear it looks like the year has changed...

_"How did you reach this channel?" _Scott nearly jumps out of his skin at the decidedly unfamiliar feminine voice in his ears. He had forgotten his radio doesn't really have an off button. _"This is Agent Marvel - approaching Earth at 40.7128° North, 74.0060° West. Do you copy?"_

There's hardly a beat that passes before his response. "How did _you _reach this channel? And where is that? Somewhere nearby?"

_"This is a private SHIELD channel, access should only be granted to those with level nine clearance." _It's quiet again, for just a few moments. _"Identify yourself."_

"Uh..." He considers the request for a moment, unsure. It's not as if he has many options, though. "Scott Lang - no agent, no clearance levels. Agent Ant could be a good working title, though I am pretty partial to the good ol' Ant Man. I can probably make an exception, this time."

_"Am I supposed to know who that is?" _The voice crackles with a little laugh, Scott begins to think he is missing some kind of joke. _"I can't pin your location, agent. My tracking equipment can't get a lock on you."_

He should probably be bothered that she was trying to track him but it's probably going to work in his favor. Probably. There's always running the risk of someone being a crazy overpowered super villain. Under the cicumstances he is sort of doubting that and he doesn't actually have any other options. "Yeah. I can see where you might run into that problem. Please tell me you know where Los Angeles is?"

Another laugh, this one warmer. _"I think I'm familiar with the area."_

**_Ryker's Island, New_** _**York**_  
_2018 _

So he didn't go straight to Wakanda, sue him. But taking the Royal Talon Flyer and disconnecting it from remote access and communications to take a detour would be worth it, probably. And if not... Well, there seems to be plenty of time to waste now.

There are no guards outside, for the first time in God only knows how long. Under the circumstances, Clint doesn't think he can really blame anyone who was left for leaving. Briefly, he thinks of the prisoners inside. They're likely fending for themselves in their cells with no access to the necessities. Those of them that are still living, at least. He should feel bad for them. He feels bad for _not _feeling bad for them. They put themselves there, though. Many of them are there due to the work of the Avengers, individually or alone, and are fairly dangerous potential super villains. Not important enough to put on the Raft, not petty enough to leave in a regular facility.

They put themselves where they are. It sounds a lot like what Tony said to him, those few years ago when he was locked up like a criminal too. He has to force himself not to wonder where the billionaire douchebag is now. Hanging around safe with Pepper with his thumb up his ass as usual, hopefully.

Still, Clint repeats these words to himself mentally as he's entering the building. Entering as in just walking in. It's surreal. When was the last time he just waltzed into a facility like this, probably right under the thumb of SHIELD? It's been years. It most certainly feels too easy. In fact, he's a little disappointed. He had expected some kind of fight. He could have held off on breaking in the new - and too tight, fuck Tony - suit if he had known there was going to be next to nothing happening.

The further into the prison he wanders, the more screaming he hears. Most of it is aimless hollering and a few wolf whistles at his presence.

"Oh, boys." Flashing his teeth, he reaches down to pat the blade on his right hip. On his left is his bowstaff, waiting for any further use. "I didn't think you'd be so glad to see me. I'm flattered, I swear. We'll have to schedule our next play date soon."

Someone shouts something about _'I'll show you glad' _and _'come up here you'll see how happy I am' _but he brushes it off. He's not exactly here to antagonize the few criminals left in Rykers. Just one criminal in particular.

On his way by one of the guard areas he stops inside to root through the belongings of someone who is probably no longer even on this Earth, digging out a set of keys that hopefully go to the prison. And then he's back on his search, moving through a recreational area and a dining block before reaching more cells. The man known as Hawkeye finds his man on one of the ground levels, sitting in a decently furnished cell with his feet propped up. He looks very comfortable for a man imprisoned for the foreseeable future. The man looks up, all gentle smile and soft edges that could fool almost anyone, and sips what looks to be a cup of wine. Not even bad wine, Clint can smell it from where he stands.

"What brings a guy like you to a place like this?" He starts, raising an arm to rest his forearm on the bars of the cell. "I feel like I've overdressed for this scene. What do you think? The gold is a lot, right?"

The smile on the bald man's face twitches, inching downward just a bit. "It's always better to be overdressed than under dressed. People around here get tired of shades of orange and blue eventually."

"I've seen some grey in here."

"Right." He looks considerably less amused now, a furrow starting between his brows. A fraction of a second later he relaxes, whatever anger was burning behind his eyes retreats. "I didn't realize those of us inhabiting Ryker's were important enough to warrant an Avenger coming to fix our situation."

"Oh, no." Clint allows a smile to crawl across his features, nearly cheeky. "I'm not here for _that. _You think the government or what's left of SHIELD without Director Fury cares what happens to this place?"

A pause. "Then what?"

"Wilson Fisk. Otherwise known as; The King of Diamonds, Kingpin, Inmate 55467." Clint reads his name off as if he has the file in his hand, and not simply memorized most of it on the ride over. "Early fifties, born on the second of August. Known associate of the Hand. I'm looking for information."

Fisk looks at him steadily before smiling again, this time sharper. "I do believe we can provide each other with some help. I see you have the keys, there." He nods to the ring of keys hanging from his wrist. "Think of it an an exchange."

There's a short pause. Fisk rises slowly, reaching for another cracked cup off of a desk and a shampoo bottle. He pops the cap, taking a generous sniff, and then tops off his own cup. He eyes the former Avenger warily before raising the bottle as a silent offering. He says something about _hospitality, even when being afforded none yourself _before tipping the container and filling the other cup halfway. He moves surprisingly daintily for a man as large as he is, taking slow steps and carefully nudging his way by the furniture decorating his cell. He holds the cup out toward the bars and Clint reaches through the ease it between the slices of metal with the hand not resting on them already.

"Sounds just my style." Clint relaxes his posture to sell the lie, leaning further in. The older man looks satisfied by this. "Have you heard the name Maya Lopez? Stands about yea high? About a decade younger than me? Can't hear for shit?"

"Never heard of her." The answer is quiet and slow. His eyes flicker. He's lying. That's fine. Clint saw it coming.

"You sure? I heard her father was a lackey for you, took her under your wing when he died." He doesn't mention that Fisk had him killed, doesn't mention their inevitable falling out. "Think he was going by Wild Horse? No, wait, Crime Horse? Creepy Horse?"

Fisk raises a lip in a quiet sneer, shaking his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. We watched people in here crumble to dirt and you're worried about one woman? Your woman, maybe?"

Clint actually chortles at that one, shakes his head. "No. Not even close. We're friends, right Wilson - do you mind if I call you Wilson - you don't have to lie to me. C'mon, end of the world, people melting, what's left to lose?"

Silence. Fisk seems to be weighing his options, eyeing the keys in his hand. Clint shifts his drink to his other hand to raise and jingle them teasingly, tipping his head to the side. "Like you said, it's just _one woman_."

A kind frown smooths itself onto the bald man's face and he raises his free hand, palm out. "You have my sincerest apologies, I've never heard the name."

It's a straight lie, they both know it. But if the end of the world isn't going to make him budge, there's no point in wasting more time asking nicely. An interrogation at this point would be a waste of energy, too. Natasha could drag it out of him, one way or another, but that's never been Clint's specialty. He's always been better in the field and undercover than nicely (or not so nicely) trying to ease answers out of people like this. He rolls his shoulders, considering this for a while. The imprisoned man in front of him doesn't seem in any rush to speak or act either, clearly content to just sit there and wait for him to collect his thoughts and bundle his words into another sentence or inquiry.

So he switches lines of questioning, offers up a new pace. Something easier. Some of this he's found through old SHIELD files, some through the new ones Fury is willing to slide his way despite the constant insistence that he isn't in active duty and everyone still thinks he's deceased. Some of this has been been traveling through rumors since early 2015, whispers of masked crusaders running through Los Angeles and New York.

"What about a red wearing vigilante somewhere in New York? Sound familiar? Not the one with the arachnid obsession, for clarification."

The sudden twist to Fisk's expression is unmistakable. "They say he's dead. Crushed like a bug, pest he was. If not, well... It's hard to tell after this fiasco, but color me _hopeful._"

"This is going to sound funny," he starts carefully. "What about a guy named Fist? Or a Cage?"

For the first time, Fisk seems to seriously think it over. His brow furrows and he seats himself again, leaning an elbow onto his knees and gazing into his cup. His finger taps on his glass and Clint swears he can hear a clock somewhere ticking, taking him through the seconds and pushing him toward a headache. Finally, after what feels like minutes of quiet dragging by and pinching at his nerves, cold brown eyes turn back up to him.

"Alias Investigations. Ran and owned by a Miss Jones." An odd smile rises to his lips. He sips his wine again. "I think you'll find her refreshing. She's full of many gifts, all put to waste... I believe she is an associate of the latter mentioned. _Is, _we say, as if the world is not being ravaged right now."

Clint pulls away from the cell, nodding. It's enough to go off of, for now. He's willing to try following this lead for now. The more hands they have on their side the better, he doubts any of the other remaining heroes will complain if he finds a few more allies to pull from the shadows. Assuming they want to come into the light, that is. There are still plenty of superhumans and other enhanced people floating around the world who simply do not want to be found out quite yet. He can't imagine that any of them are feeling any more compelled to come forward with what has recently happened. But if they had some context, if they knew there was potentially something they could do -

The sound of a rough cough, Fisk clearing his throat, and then a couple sharp raps of his fist on the wall breaks the blond man's train of thought. He's standing again, close to the door this time. He has one hand outstretched with his palm facing upward, expression expectant. Once he's sure he has the other man's attention, he clears his throat again and gives a meaningful look to his hand.

"If that's all, I believe we had a deal."

"Did we?" Clint furrows his brows, steps closer again. "Sorry, I don't recall any contracts or handshakes."

Fisk scoffs, an action that comes across more inconvenienced than annoyed. "I told you what I know. You and I both know releasing me will do nothing to the outside world. Releasing all of us would cause no change." His cheeks are filling in with color now, due to what seems to be anger. "You had us all locked away and still another disaster has reached everyone. You would have been better off leaving us out."

"You know... That's a decent point." Clint nods, trying to look convinced as he holds the keys just an inch from the other man's hands.

He tips his hand to the side, lets the ring of keys fall from his hands and clatter to the floor. Fisk drops quickly to try to reach for them, struggling to get just a few centimeters closer. Clint's hands come to his hips and he gives an exaggerated shrug as if to say 'oops.' The other man breathes hard and heavy, someone a couple cells over wheezes with laughter.

"Pick them up." The bald man demands as he rises, one hand coming to grip the bars until his knuckles are white. "You can't _do _this."

Clint is already turning from him, placing his makeshift cup on the floor and sliding his hands into his pockets. The katana on his hip and the bowstaff mirroring it feel like concrete. Stiff and heavy. A weight that leaves him feeling much older than he actually. He can feel Fisks eyes on him, his angered yells echoing in his ears. He should feel bad, he thinks, but he just shrugs to himself. He's done worse than leave a few criminals in jail. As he's leaving he turns just enough to look over his shoulder, offering the larger man a lazy smile and a wave.

"I'll give a 'hello' to Maya for you, Wilson."

The look he receives in turn is surprisingly calm. "She'll give you one better." Clint doesn't stay to ask what that means.

**_Wakanda  
_**_2018_

It's been three weeks.

Three weeks, since half the population of the universe was sent into nothingness. Two weeks and two days since they last heard from Hawkeye, supposedly moving to their location from the homestead. One week and four days since Bruce managed to get in contact with Happy and Erik Selvig at the new Avengers Facility. Two days since the last outburst, followed by an argument, involving their _group of whiny crybabies _as Rocket so kindly put it in the aforementioned argument. The whole thing had led to Shuri rearranging their living arrangements and sternly advising them all to spend some time exploring their temporary base of operations instead of treading on each others' nerves.

So, they all parted ways, for a few days minimum. It wasn't like they could say no to Shuri. With T'Challa gone she technically became the ruler of Wakanda. Rowanda had mentioned something about a ceremony, in due time. Okoye stays by her side most days, now, stationed just over her shoulder. Whatever struggles they're having with their loss, they take it behind closed doors. Steve's heart breaks a little for her. She's too young to be shouldering these burdens.

Natasha left Wakanda altogether, stating she would _be back when Barton decides to show his ugly mug _before she allowed a Wakandan to escort her over the border. She had muttered something to him about old connections and mending bridges. Steve is sure she'll be within reach as soon as they need her, but watching her go still hurts. Watching her car drift into the distance still leaves him with a distant ache in his chest. He doesn't try to stop her, sway her mind, because he knows it's pointless. She's always done as she pleases, one person asking her to do otherwise has never changed her plans before.

The next to follow her lead is Rhodey. The colonel has to return to the Air Force and report back to the government - or what is left of it, now that things have been flipped sideways - on whatever is going on. He doesn't seem excited to go, but he says there isn't much choice in the matter. It'll only be so long before people start to ask questions, before people start to think all of them have been sucked into the void and more chaos follows behind this mass murder. The televisions are already running with static and the radio is only airing news a quarter of the time. The War Machine pulls off of the ground and shoots through the sky with a short promise of returning within a week, tops, if he can.

Bruce stays, though he isn't seen often. The man of science has never been the most outgoing, and for obvious reasons has made an effort to avoid being around many people. Most of his time is spent in the labs with Shuri, examining their advanced technology and making an effort to revive what is left of Vision, whose lifeless body has been slumped on a table for the past three weeks with no sign of deterioration.

Their newest companion, Rocket, joins him most times. If he isn't there then he's fiddling with some metals and tech that probably don't belong to him, insisting that there's a new and amazing weapon or creation on the horizon. Steve is pretty sure he's blown up more things than he's made at this point. There have been at least eleven explosions since the beginning of their stay, and he is sure that most of them have been caused by the raccoon. _Probably _all of them, though.

The only other place to find their rodent companion is striding alongside Thor, bickering or grumbling or discussing things that hardly make sense to those of them that haven't wandered through the far reaches of space. The Asgardian himself spends a lot of time in the kitchens, downing all of the alcohol found in the city, or trying to form some plan of group strengthening activity. Neither of those last two ever work out for him, but the effort is appreciated as a whole.

Due to this Steve is left to his own devices, more often than not.

He's never really minded being alone. Before the war he only had his parents and Bucky, no siblings. And after the death of both of his parents - his father left them in 1918, before he was even born and his mother died in 1936 when tuberculosis finally dragged her down - he only had Bucky. Bucky's family was there for him, of course, but it was never really the same. They had their own dynamics and as much as they accepted him, as much as they treated him like family, it was hard to feel at home when no one else wanted him either. People had seen him as a scrawny burden, baggage just waited to tumble to the ground and burst open so that all of your dirty laundry was scattered around in public. He understood that.

Things had changed during the war. He had met Dr. Erskine, and watched his untimely death. Peggy, who had managed to live past his disappearance and change the world. And Howard, who searched for him until he too met an unexpected death. After them, the Howling Commandos. A better group of men than Steve could have ever hoped to have follow him into Hell with no questions. And the constant, for years, Bucky.

After all of that, being frozen sort of took away most of his opportunities at socialization. And when he came back out of the ice, everyone was gone. Except Peggy, though she only lingered before finally getting to have peace. Making friends without them having any assumptions about him, or just seeing him as Captain America, had been nearly impossible. So he was essentially alone, again, for some time.

The other Avengers had seen past these things, all jokes aside. They were all in semi-similar positions, it only made sense. Sam had understood in different ways, had brushed off his life as Captain America in favor of just seeing Steve. And then he had Bucky again, for such a short period of time that the hole in his chest that opened back in the 40's feels like a fresh wound.

And now, once again, almost everyone is gone. He isn't too big if a man to admit his chest feels like it's splitting.

It's why Steve finds himself sitting out here, near the outskirts of Wakanda, leaning against the side of a little hut he would have to duck down just to enter. It's a nice place. Quaint. It reminds him of the apartment he used to keep in the 40's, after his parents died. It had been small but it held him well enough. It had been comfortable, felt warm even during the winters when he couldn't afford to heat the place and Bucky would help him fit an extra layer of clothes on his body and utilize the small fireplace until they ran out of wood.

The sun is getting ready to set, now. The sky is splashed with vibrant oranges and reds, littered with bits of gold from the last rays of the sun saying goodbye. The heat and humidity are following it, the wind would probably be leaving goosebumps on his arms if not for his higher body temperature. Steve muses on this for a moment, pins it as another thing to thank the super soldier serum for. He would have killed to hold this kind of heat when he was barely over five feet and weighed less than a large dog.

Steve hears the footsteps crunching on grass before anything else. Heavy footfalls, uneven steps, metal clicking against metal. Easy to recognize, not a threat. "Rogers." Thor's greeting is loud across the empty field. He swears it runs off three of the goats. "The princess Shuri told me I would find you here."

"She did." Steve feels minutely betrayed. "How... kind of her."

"Yes, I thought so as well." The god man smiles, and if he catches the sadness flashing across the other blond's features he doesn't comment. "What brings you this far out?"

He wants to lie. He wants to say that this was just the farthest he could get to have some air and take a breath. He doesn't want to admit he's visiting the most recent residence of his dead best friend. Chasing him the same way he did after discovering he wasn't nearly as dead as they all thought, and then chasing him again when he revealed he wasn't ready to be found. Something tells him that Thor would notice the lie, though, and he doesn't have the heart to go through with it. The Asgardian might not always be the brightest bulb in the box, but he's observant enough.

"Bucky once said this was the best place to be to just think, I thought I'd give it a try." He turns back to face the sunset as it ducks behind the trees. "He really seemed to like it here. He cared for this place."

There's no helping the way his throat tightens, the grief that inches into his tone. Thor claps a large hand over his shoulder, hard enough that he stumbles. When he looks at the larger man he's giving him a cheeky grin, gesturing him to follow him back down the path that leads toward the city and the palace. He's a bit reluctant to leave the quiet and peace, but he keeps stride with the Asgardian anyway. They could both use the company right about now, he thinks.

"There have been many loses in this war." Thor nods once, more to himself than anything. "I left Midgard to search for the Infinity Stones, I found nothing. I let us continued to be played as pawns in this game, until Thanos Yahtzee'd himself."

Steve squints at the other man for a moment, unsure if he should point out how he's mixed up two different games. He probably meant to say _King'd himself._ "Thor, buddy..."

"No, my friend, let me finish." The large blond waves a hand at him, lips pursed. "Had I stayed on Midgard, or on my Throneworld - if I had not allowed myself so many distractions, my family would not be lost. Hela never would have been released, Ragnarok could have been prevented. Asgard could have assisted in this war and the Space Stone would have been contained. He knew when we fell. I have yet to figure out how, but I am sure of it. My brother said the same."

"Loki says a lot of things." He points out, not unkindly.

"And they were not all worth listening to." The larger man pauses in his steps, considering his words. "Thanos was connected to the attack on New York. The stone, the Chitauri. We have been playing into his hand."

"Do you think he has eyes on us?" Steve asks automatically, though he isn't sure he's meant to be interrupting yet. He chooses to ignore Loki's connection to their newest pain in the ass for now.

"I do. There is a Planet of Watchers, my father used to speak of them. They have Informants stationed across the galaxy. I believe we have crossed paths with one, though whether they are truly keeping their gaze on us has yet to be seen."

Steve takes the bait, furrowing his brows. "What are Watchers?"

"A powerful race that has overcome disease, famine, and war." He points a finger at nothing, as if accusing them from a distance. "To say they do not get bored and meddle in such things regardless would be presumptuous. Odin said they betrayed pacts of non-involvement many times over the centuries."

"Have you ever met one of these Watchers?" Steve's frown deepens at the head shake he receives in response. "Are you sure they're real?"

A vague shrug, this time. "My father had no reason to mislead us on this, we were taught to avoid them at a young age. But... Odin told many stories, not for our benefit. "

There's a hint of resentment in there, so Steve decides to pass over the subject for now. "What would they get from participating in this?"

"That is what I have yet to find. Entertainment, perhaps. Or a deal for usage of the Gauntlet." Thor heaves a sigh, looking less like the energetic puppy he usually is and more like his 1500+ years are finally getting to him. "I imagine it to be more likely an Informant has been swayed, though I know little of their lives of involvements."

Steve can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, running a hand through his hair. "You'd think we would run out of alien invaders, eventually."

"No." Thor looks confused for a moment. "You have not even seen a section of the universe, we should amend this."

The human raises both hands and shakes his head, allowing himself a smile. It's the lightest he's felt since talking to Clint. Maybe it's the simple distraction, the ability to joke and laugh still. Maybe it's because they're finally discussing something relevant that could make real changes in their predicament and potentially lead to some progress of some kind.

"I think I'm okay on that one, for now."

The rest of the walk is spent more quietly. They discuss a few things, briefly. The six course meal Thor has been preparing for them. The blasters Rocket has managed to make from some old powersuits left in the labs. The progress the resident geniuses have made on longer distance communications devices. What the Wakandans think of them, how they've been handling their significant losses.

Behind them the sun dips below the horizon. A half moon rises, bathing the city and grass and trees in a pale silver light that Steve thinks suits Wakanda. He thinks it's something that Bucky probably enjoyed, too. He had always liked to sit on the roof or in the streets after a night of excitement and drinks and just listen to the night moving around them. He had always been able to appreciate the bits that unnerved Steve. The dark shadows, the way the moon seemed to leer at them, the unidentifiable noises. His chest aches at the train of thought, at the idea that he'll never be able to properly enjoy these things again.

By the time they're approaching the palace again, allowing the door to scan their person to be sure they are who they say they are before allowing them entry, it seems the Asgardian remembers what he originally came searching for him for. Just as he's turning to Steve with a look of excited realization on his face, though, they're cut off by Bruce barreling down the corridor past them. Both men blink at the smoke trail he might as well have left behind him, before the doctor comes jogging back around the corner to face them.

"Thor!" He sounds exasperated, raking a hand through his messy dark hair and adjusting his glasses. "You've been gone for _hours. _We said quickly, we agreed on that."

"We walked." The big man offers a sheepish smile and a half shrug before using a solid grip on Steve's upper arms to cast him forward. "I retrieved -"

"Yes, I see that you found Steve." Bruce offers the man in question a bright-eyed look. He has the look of a breakthrough on his features, flushed face and bright eyes mixed with a lot of fidgeting. "Hi, Steve."

"Hi, Bruce." The blond tosses him a small smile in return. "Is everything alright?"

"No - yes - I mean -" The look he gives Thor this time is accusatory. "You haven't told him?"

"Ah, no." The god looks a little guilty. "I may have been sidetracked, but only momentarily."

Bruce rolls his eyes before gesturing for them to follow. The three fall into quick steps together as they head back in the direction the doctor came from, towards Shuri's main lab. The doors open for him automatically. Steve thinks they must have updated their security system again, allowing the remaining Avengers further access to these things than they originally had. Whatever secrets were being harbored in Wakanda have become second fiddle to the main game, here.

"Rocket helped us to figure out some of the calculations, found some more specific coordinates to pinpoint. We caught a bit of a transmission but it's jumbled, from the distance I think. Rocket says he doesn't recognize any of the information being relayed." Bruce shrugs, unconcerned. "More importantly, you have to see _this."_

When they walk into Shuri's lab the lights are dimmed and the room is empty. Bruce leads them into a room connected by the wall on the right. This room is entirely empty, except...

In the middle of the room is something scarily familiar. There's a golden mass of light shifting around itself, an unreadable mess of lines broken up by air and flickering white and blue spots. The sight puts Steve on edge immediately. He wants to ask _why _anyone thought another uncontrollable form of intelligence was a good idea. Why no one asked him about something like this before they put it to the test again. He wants to ask how long it's been lingering there and how much it has seen of them. The shock must be evident on his features, because across the room Shuri tries to signal to him for peace and Bruce is already picking up a tablet and pressing some buttons.

And then, like music to his ears, Steve hears it. A disembodied, familiar, and embarrassingly comforting voice.

"Captain Rogers, how nice to see you again." A pause and then, with a touch of amusement, "I suppose this time it is your turn to apologize for not knocking and then using the door properly."

Bruce laughs, as if this is the funniest thing he's heard in his lifetime. "I believe this is what people call a game-changer."

To his left, Thor claps the doctor's shoulder hard enough he lurches forward. "Triple Yahtzee, my friends! This calls for a celebration. A feast."

Across the room, Shuri tucks a pen behind her ear. "Well, Captain Vanilla?"

"What do you call yourself?" Steve steps closer to the mass of light and allows his shoulders to relax despite his lingering wariness. "Still not a child of Ultron?"

Bruce seems to flinch a little at this. "Steve -"

"No, Bruce." Blue eyes meet green and the room goes quiet. "Let him answer."

"The inquiry is understandable, Doctor Banner." The Vision, as they knew him, would be offering a smile now if he could. "I was never one of his. I just was. I am Vision. Though this title seems... Less fitting, without the Mind Stone speaking to me."

"But it's you, nonetheless." Steve decides, and the gold in front of him flashes blue for a split second.

"As I have always been."


	6. Wearying

**_Upstate New York_**  
_2018_

"Okay, FRIDAY." Happy heaves out a sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and trying to contain his impatience. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me, here, but I'm gonna need you to step it down a few notches for me."

Having such an advanced artificial intelligence is a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because things like turning off the oven, and managing power conservation, and opening doors, and just about anything else he can really imagine, are taken care of without a second thought. Happy is pretty positive that FRIDAY even takes care of paying most of the taxes and bills, a small chore that Pepper and Tony hardly have to worry about anyway. FRIDAY is smart enough not to pay anything outrageous, probably goes to the trouble of comparing every bit of usage in her recordings down to the smallest details before she lets anything go. He's a little jealous, thinking about it. What takes him a few hours when he sits down to do it probably takes only the snap of their fingers, a split second for FRIDAY to knock out.

A curse because it is not nearly as easy to use and adapt to as he expected. Despite his numerous and lengthy stays in the Avengers Facility and years surrounded by all things Stark related, he's not sure he'll ever be used to having his actions and words constantly monitored and tracked. It's not to say he doesn't like FRIDAY, really, he can at least move past those things and he's _pretty _sure Tony wouldn't make anything too malicious. On purpose. That doesn't make it any less weird. The _real_ curse, though? Knowing that the artificial intelligence is significantly smarter and more aware than he could have planned to be. Happy hardly even understands some of the things the disembodied voice says to him, if he's being honest. Usually Tony is around to translate and dumb it down for him, but now? He's a little lost.

"After running multiple tests and deploying the Scouts -"

Happy does a double-take, leaning back in his seat and looking up at the ceiling where the lightly accented voice comes from. "Scouts?"

"Small groups of nanobots outfitted with various forms of equipment. Primary usages are small scale repairs, surveillance, reconnaissance, and observation of potential base locations or quote future sites for -"

"I get it, alright, little privacy invading robots. Perfect, who knew Tony wouldn't get the memo on it being a _bad _time for that." Happy is pretty sure the U.S government - or any other governments, for that matter - would not approve of this or appreciate the unsupervised artificial intelligence deciding to send the tiny bots out on their own under normal circumstances, much less following the events of the past couple years. Desperate times, though... "Nevermind, keep going."

There's a pause, as if FRIDAY is making sure he's finally done interrupting. He's pretty sure she even sighs at him. "It appears as though human life was not the only thing targeted. Local flora and fauna have vanished and the levels of carbon dioxide and oxygen in the air have fluctuated. Most of the Scouts have gone as far as their range allows along the East Coast, returning similar reports. Units deployed overseas have yet to return to communication hubs."

If he's being honest, Happy isn't totally sure why she's relaying this information to him. He gets the gist of what this means, of the basic effect this could have on everything, but... He's no Tony Stark or Erik Selvig or Bruce Banner or Jane Foster. He could probably barely pass a college level chemistry test at this point in his life. Which is not to say he's an idiot, but he certainly knows his limits in terms of being useful in some sort of space age apocalypse.

"Doctor Selvig and Doctor Banner have already been notified of these findings as well." The lightly accented voice cuts in again, as if reading his mind. "Doctor Foster and Ms. Lewis have been unreachable since before the Incident." Maybe she really _is _reading his mind. Happy is a little horrified. "You're saying all of this aloud, Mr. Hogan, no need to worry. Mr. Stark has not yet found a way to make me capable of simply reading everyone's thoughts to avoid the inconvenience of actually speaking."

That's... a relief. A little embarrassing, but at least the only witness to his total loss of brain-to-mouth filter is an artificial intelligence who probably gets nothing out of gossip. "I need to get some sleep."

"Sleep deprivation can cause high blood pressure, potentially leading to a heart attack, heart failure, or stroke. You should rest."

Happy chokes on a laugh and rubs at his eyes tiredly. "Tony really went all out giving you his sense of humor, didn't he."

"Would you expect anything less? Everyone likes to be entertained."

"It's sick." Happy waves a finger mock-chidingly as he rises from his seat in one of the empty offices left on floor 4B. "You're both sick."

"I'll be sure to formally record and store this in the records for future reference, sir."

There's a moment where he almost laughs, a split second where everything feels normal. And then he's reminded that this _isn't _normal, and that it's never going to be normal again. If it were normal, Tony would arrive back in a few nights from some business trip or Avengers business, greeted by him and Pepper at the door before their long awaited homecoming got interrupted by FRIDAY projecting some insulting clip of him on the wall to crack everyone up and lead Tony into some prattle about being offended and - and -

And that isn't what's going to happen in a few days, or nights, or weeks, or months. If anyone were coming back they would have come weeks ago. Happy has resigned himself to that, because he has to. Because that's the way life is, sometimes. Things happen and people leave and never come back and the world changes and life goes on.

"Thanks, FRIDAY."

**_Wakanda_**  
_2018_

Some would say that the weeks following the snap - or, as some people are referring to it, the Incident - dragged by. Rocket complains each day that the minutes and hours seem to be stretching beyond reason, a sentiment that Shuri seems to share more with each passing day. The on-again-off-again radio silence around the globe probably doesn't help this. Only scheduled, prerecorded broadcasts have been airing since the aforementioned event. Occasionally something new will break through, or there will be a shift in the dialogue. Manifests of the dead - or missing - pop up online, highlighted by reports of shifting crime rates and chaos as the world tries to find some form of structure with all the missing political heads. But as the dust settles, most of it is the same.

For Bruce, the time feels like it's flying.

He's been keeping careful track of the time for years, always sure to have a clock in each room and a watch on his wrist and a calendar in his lab. It's been like this most of his life really. Since he got roped into bodily babysitting Big Mean and Green, to be more accurate. Even being able to kind of track what the Hulk is doing, it's become a necessity since then, needing to know the exact time and date so that he can try to fill in the blanks when he loses the spotlight for minutes or hours or days or years. That last one is sort of new, and sort of a problem. Not one he has had a lot of time to dwell on now but a problem nonetheless. In any case, if he isn't keeping track of the time he'll never have any way of knowing how long he's been the Hulk. Or the Hulk has been him. There's no good way to word that, he thinks, when they're both trapped the way they are.

All of that said, he's learned to manage his time very well over the years. There's no telling when something will happen, if something will happen, to push him out of his own head. What time he does have he uses wisely. Efficiently. He has to. So it's admittedly a little disheartening when every time he looks at the clock the hours have passed with no new news and little progress. Or they've lapsed into the next day and there's nothing to show for it. Bruce wishes the time would slow down for him, like it has everyone else.

There are a lot of things he's wished for over the years, wishes for now. He used to wish he could disconnect himself from the Hulk. Used to wish he could drop off of the grid and use a new name and make another life for himself. Have a family, friends, a cat or a bird. Now he wishes the friends he did have weren't scattered by the winds or taken away by some cosmic disaster. He wishes Tony were here, to distract him and provide insight and disprove all of the assumptions that he's gone too. He kind of wishes, somewhere in the darker corners of his mind that he tries to avoid visiting nowadays, that the snap had taken him out instead of one of the others.

Not that wishing has ever gotten him anywhere. It didn't change anything when he was a child. Didn't change anything back when he could taste cool metal in his mouth and practically feel the gunpowder tickling his nose. Didn't change anything a decade ago. Bruce knows it won't change anything now either.

"Doctor Banner?" Across the room, the shrunken mass of gold and blue shifts to get his attention, flickers red in the corner of his eyesight. Hearing the disembodied voice of Vision while looking down at the grey and lifeless body he once had is a little disorienting. He has to force himself not to think about the fact that the other man - being? - is kind of technically dead. "You've been staring at the same page of notes for over ten minutes. Keeping eyes on the remains of my vessel is not going to make it sit up on the table. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, sorry, I was just..." Just letting himself get distracted from what he should be doing. Overthinking things he can't do much about. The doctor heaves a sigh. "Doing nothing."

"Perhaps a break would be good, assist in getting the gears turning."

Bruce rubs the back of his neck and gives a tired smile. "I think I'll pass."

"I think he's right."

The light voice takes him totally by surprise. Whipping his head to the doorway, the brunette finds himself faced with the current... ruler of Wakanda? He's pretty sure that's what she's doing now. The look on her face says she's been there a while but he can't recall even hearing the door open. She's wearing a mix of gold and greys today, a loose top and shorts. She looks like she's sweating, too. Working out some kinks in her new gear maybe? He knows she's been experimenting with some Black Panther technology recently. Maybe she intends to take up the mantle, now that he brother is gone. Maybe she already has and they just don't know it yet. It would be fitting.

"You know." Shuri is approaching him now, one finger tapping in the Kimoyo Beads situated on her wrist. They do a scan of the body laid out in the table, and whatever results they give don't show on her expression. "My father used to tell me that in times of great tragedy locking yourself away could only do you more trouble than good."

Averting his gaze back down to his notes, Bruce hums noncommittally. The young girl doesn't budge, though. She steps closer, toward the top of the table where Vision's head is. Her fingertips dance across the crater left in his forehead, an action she's taken to each time she comes to inspect the damage and try to work. It's a nice gesture, Bruce thinks. Gentle and almost reverent. She would have liked him, had she gotten more of a chance to know him before his untimely demise.

He isn't really sure what to say in response. Bruce has never been the kind of man to keep a lot of company. People are distracting and unpredictable and stressful. Even after spending years getting his issues under control, he doesn't exactly find himself searching for companions.

Finally, after too long of a pause, Bruce decides on: "He sounds like he was very wise."

"But you don't agree." Shuri shoots back quickly, giving him a look that is far beyond her years. "My mother says grief is handled in many different ways. She would be out here telling him to shove off and leave people be, if he were here."

Bruce chokes on a little bit of a laugh. It probably shouldn't be funny. He tries to cover it unsuccessfully with a cough, but judging by the look of amusement on Shuri's face she's already caught it. He tries to look apologetic, hiding behind his hastily scrawled notes. There's a moment, a couple seconds, where he wonders if it's inappropriate to be talking so lightheartedly over what is essentially a dead body.

"I've never been much of a people person." Bruce admits, shoulders lifting in a shrug. "I don't mind to be alone."

Shuri nods, as if she understands the sentiment. He's not really sure she does but he appreciates it nonetheless. "Do you prefer it?"

"What?"

"Being alone." She clarifies lightly, and Bruce frowns. "Just because you don't mind being alone doesn't mean you prefer it."

"It depends. Some people are better company than others."

"That's not a real answer." Shuri rolls her eyes at him but before he can respond she's turning her back to him, heading for the door. "Come on, Kermit."

Bruce wants to say something a little snarky in response, before the words make his mind drift to Tony and they die on his tongue anyway. "Where are we going?"

"Outside." She looks back at him teasingly as they head toward the exit. "You know, sunshine. Clouds. Grass. Trees. Not to mention fresh, unfiltered air."

"That sounds terrible." Trying to keep himself as monotone as possible, the green eyed man shrugs his jacket on and neatly folds his notes to slide them into the inner pocket. "Is that what young people are into nowadays?"

Just ahead of him, already moving past the intricate inclining walkway and to the slot where the wall folds away to reveal a slotted door, Shuri lets out a laugh. The pale white light of the lab makes her umber skin glow, highlights the tired lines under her eyes and the tight line of her shoulders. It makes her look older she is, though that's probably to be expected under the circumstances.

The past month and a week has been full of unfortunate events, it's been hard on everyone. Beyond that, from what Bruce has heard at least, the past five years have taken their toll as well. Not just on the Avengers, but on all of their newfound allies. And potential allies. And strange newcomers in the form of talking animals.

Five years is a lot to miss, Bruce is realizing.

"It is, in fact, what most people are into." Slowing down, Shuri falls into step beside him as they start down the corridor. "You're more out of touch than the hundred year old men." She fumbles a step, turns to go down the next hall, and corrects herself. "Man."

The ache in her voice is undeniable. Bruce reaches up to pat her shoulder, reconsiders, and shoves his hands into his pockets instead. He has a feeling she wouldn't appreciate the pity, even if they are in the same boat. "Steve has had the advantage of everyone updating his list since he came out of the ice. Some of us are being forced to learn on our own, you know. He gets a cheat sheet."

"He was frozen for seventy years." She points out, wagging a finger at him. "A cheat sheet evens you out."

Their conversation is interrupted when the door ahead of them opens, the sun reaching out to temporarily render them blind and halt their progress. The warmth that follows it is surprisingly pleasant, heating up Bruce's cheeks and hands. A gust of wind ruffles his hair and pushes Shuri's clothes around playfully.

Blinking a few times to allow his eyes to adjust, the doctor raises a hand to cast a shadow over his face. Down the stairs stationed in the grass with an impressively sized hunk of metal is Rocket. The raccoon is flipping some levers and cursing, one small paw slamming into the side impatiently. Steve is standing off to the side, pinching the bridge of his nose as he attempts to reason with the creature. And a little ways from there is Thor, Okoye, and M'Baku doing... well, he isn't really sure what. Sparring, maybe? That seems like a safe bet, judging by the thousand watt grin the Asgardian is sporting and the sweat beading on the Wakandans' skins.

"Colonel Rhodes has been delayed in joining us." In his moments of distraction the princess - ruler? Bruce isn't sure which to stick with - has already descended the steps and is eying a vibranium rod stuck into the ground.

This news isn't really surprising. Rhodey was supposed to return about a week and a half ago, with more news regarding the status of the U.S. government. This is the second time he's pushed his arrival back. President Ellis was not lucky enough to survive the snap, nor was the Vice President. Their cabinet and families are left picking up the pieces, struggling to find something to say to the country and fumbling in their attempts to find a solution to the state of disarray the world has been left in. Bruce doesn't really have high expectations for any of them.

"Fuckin' _finally! _The tech you all have down here is practically ancient, you know, I've seen better pieces of equipment in the Kyln." Rocket is gesturing animatedly at the long range communications device he's been building. "There are better receivers in pubs on Xandar."

"That loses most of its significance when you take into consideration that I don't know what either of those are." Steve rubs the back of his neck, making a face.

Deciding to lend his support, Bruce steps up to the plate. "To be fair, none of us do."

"I do." Leaning into sight, the resident god raises his brows at them. "You just need to travel more."

"No, no." Bruce shoots him what he hopes is a stern look. "I've had enough interplanetary traveling for the next decade."

The raccoon practically sneers at him from a few feet away. "Uncultured _and _boring." He tips his head to look at Thor, more sarcasm than bite for once. "These are really the Avengers you were gabbing about?"

"Alright, okay, we get it. You don't like us." Steve raises a hand in defeat, ever the mediator, before giving the large contraption in front of him a suspicious look. "Aren't there more important topics on the table?"

"Right." Rocket grins, or Bruce is _pretty _sure he's grinning but it is seriously hard to tell the difference from his usual condescending teeth baring, and pats the machine in front of him. "Like my golden finger for interstellar technology."

"I don't think that's the right term, golden finger."

"Look, Mr. Patriotic. You can figure out the terms when _you _build somethin' capable of reachin' across the galaxy, picking up radio signals, lasers signals, has built in translators - which, by the way, insane that you Terrans haven't got them imbedded in you like the rest of us - catches private transmissions, satellite signals, has a built in booster." He pauses, gestures around again. "And, best of all, remote controlled self-destruct. It's nothing like faster than light neutrinophones but you name it, this baby can do it."

Bruce considers all of that, for a moment, expression twisting as he circles the machine. On the end opposite of where he started is a display no larger than one of his hands. The language on there in foreign to him, long strings of symbols with the occasional space or number thrown in. He does recognize coordinates in the upper left, though they certainly aren't on Earth. The bottom is lined with dark red buttons, each marked with a number. He doesn't touch it, he knows better than to invade Rocket's creative space.

Thor, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care. He comes up beside the green eyed man and leans down, one large hard stretched to hit the first button. The machine whirs and shifts, rising up out of itself. It looks sort of like a spire. Bruce recognizes some of the equipment put into it from Shuri's lab, Wakandan technology mixed and matched with whatever else was one hand to make a long range communications device. Not missing a beat, Rocket pushes by the doctor to swipe across the screen and huff.

When the metal stops moving and the gears stop turning there's a light spray of static in their ears. Thor frowns down at the raccoon, looking thoroughly disappointed. "It's stopped."

"Or moved." Shuri puts in. "That seems just as likely. Have you heard anything since this morning?"

"No. Rabbit has been diligently manning the stations since then." Thor does the honors of pressing the second button and causing the metal to shift again. This time Rocket smacks his hand away and snaps his teeth at him, the blonde laughs in response. "Spare a few moments for repairs and modifications."

Raising one brow, Okoye takes this as her chance to step in. "What kind of repairs?"

"I overloaded _one _part." Rocket snips back at them, already hunching over the screen again. "All it did was cause a small fire, it's not like I took out the whole west wing." Looking around, Bruce can see almost everyone wearing a grimace that matches his own. No one says anything, though. Probably for fear of dealing with another rage fueled outburst from the smaller creature and suffering through an extended monologue about how they could at least be grateful to have him around. "You cause a couple - okay, a _few _\- small explosions and suddenly no one trusts you to fix your own shit. You know what - whatever, okay, fuck all of you. The point here is that _I _found Quill."

There's a very long moment of silence. Thor seems to at least know who that is, but the unimpressed look on his face doesn't really say a lot. No one else shows any sign of recognizing the name. Or maybe it's a title? Bruce honestly has no clue. Not even a hint of a clue. Whoever or whatever Quill is, though, the news seems to be the highlight of the raccoon's day. Or week. Or month, probably. His eyes are lit up, staring at the machine on the ground as if it is his saving grace. It's kind of understandable, but the thought doesn't stub out the curious spark in his brain.

Eventually, Steve is the one to take the bait. "We should all be grateful for any help we can get, but would you mind telling us who, exactly, that is."

"What?" Rocket looks absolutely offended for a few seconds, before the expression fades into exasperation. "Right. You're all clueless, I keep forgetting. Don't even know about the people out there savin' your asses."

Before that can spur a new kind of argument, the god among them speaks up. "Starlord. One of the Guardians of the Galaxy. He is the puniest among them. Rabbit here is the captain of their ship."

"_You're _the captain?" The words slip out before Bruce can stop them, paired with a snort.

"Of course I am." He puffs out his chest, looking far more amused than expected. As if there's some inside joke no one else is in on. "And I know my crew. He's the only person I know with taste this bad. His personal collection is garbage."

There's a quiet _click! _from the machine, the speaker near the top crackling as it tries to make a connection. It screeches in protest for a moment and the the abhorrent noise is replaced by something familiar. Music. Bruce is, for a moment, mesmerized. _Cherry Bomb _bursts through the speaker, a surprisingly upbeat tune for the moment. Bruce can't remember the last time he heard it. When did this song even first come out? The seventies? It shoves nostalgia through his veins and causes a laugh to bubble up in his throat and spill past his lips. It's all a little absurd.

"The Runaways?" Bruce puts a hand over his face and tries to stop the laughter. Steve, Thor, and Shuri look equal parts amused and confused, likely not even knowing the song. The other two Wakandans seem uninterested in the entire exchange. "You guard the whole _galaxy _and you're still listening to the Runaways."

"No." Rocket fumbles his words for a moment and raises his nose indignantly. It's the first time he hasn't had something to say, a witty comeback kept on his tongue. The moment is satisfying while it lasts. "Quill does, because he hates all of us and wants to watch our eardrums bust. I know this is him. The signature matches the Benetar."

"The _Benetar?_" This time Steve is the one rubbing at his mouth to hide a laugh. "I recognize that one."

Bruce, not for the first time during this conversation, begins to wonder if Rocket really was the captain. The argument isn't worth the never ending trouble it would bring, so he doesn't voice this thought. "I'm sensing a theme, here."

"That's not -" Rocket taps his digits on the screen of his contraption, claws catching the light with each movement. "Okay, laugh it up all you want. But they're closer than before."

"How can you tell?" Steve furrows his brow at them.

Rather unhelpfully, he responds. "I'm bouncing off of stations and spaceports."

"Our fur coated companion is like Mnemosyne." Thor points upward, as if he could somehow possibly be showing them what Rocket has connected to. "His knowledge on your cosmos and planets has been invaluable."

Shuri nods more to herself than them, raising her wrist to allow her Kimoyo Beads to scan the machinery, likely wirelessly transferring any information she wants or needs to herself. Distantly, Bruce reminds himself to ask her about how those work later. "We can't send anything out, but being able to receive any incoming transmissions could be useful."

The raccoon snorts, tail flicking. "Finally. A little appreciation and all it took was the end of the world."

"I thought Mnemosyne was a Greek goddess of memory." Okoye interjects, suddenly looking interested. "Daughter of Uranus and Gaia; mother of the nine Muses."

"Many of your Midgardian myths are rooted in truth." The blonde turns to face her, one hand rubbing at his newly shortened hair. "Mnemosyne was a Valkyrie, a master strategist. They say her memory was so great that she could recreate battles in moments."

She nods, hums. "She must have been an asset. How do you suppose the lore got mixed up?"

The Asgardian gets caught up in the retelling of some story regarding legends passing down to them and no one being able distinguish one from another. Bruce tunes them out in favor of stepping closer to the small mammal to look at the screens he's flicking through. He doesn't look particularly pleased by whatever it is he's seeing. He shakes his head and mumbles something to himself, nose wrinkling up. A few steps away Steve is squinting at them before his curiosity gets the best of him and he's peering over the doctor's shoulder to see what the fuss is about.

"They're near Kariteth." Rocket says, as if that means anything to either of them. "That doesn't make sense."

"Why?" Shuri looks up from her wrist finally, brows rising.

"It's a spaceport, closest to Klyntar." A pause, and he adds: "Andromeda Galaxy. You should at least know what that is. It's closer than Titan but way off course."

"Is there anything they could need from there?" Steve frowns as Rocket retreats from the machine to pace. "Anything of value?"

"No." And then he hesitates, looking at nothing for a minute before repeating himself. "No. Fuel, maybe, but they would have gone the extra clicks to hit Xandar."

He's leaving something out. It's obvious by the pacing, the irritated swishing of his tail. Bruce sighs. "Why _wouldn't_ they go to... Kariteth?"

"K-air-e-teth." Rocket corrects him carefully. "Klyntar is practically at war and the spaceport itself is full of lowlifes. That's sayin' a lot coming from me. I met Quill in a cell."

The look on Steve's face at that is hilarious. His lips twist and his brows tip downward, clearly trying to put a positive spin on the words in his head and trying not to make assumptions. Eventually he seems to give up on that, shaking his head and scratching at his beard as they all think this over. He mutters to himself, something about _different runs of life _and _walking in their shoes _and then _we got into plenty of trouble, too. _The few minutes of silence give him the chance to reflect on the state of things, of the weird out-of-his-own-skin sort of feeling that's been lingering since he blasted back to reality on Sakaar.

Tapping a foot on the ground, Shuri screws her eyes at the sky. "How long is the trip, from there?"

"A couple months, if they don't run into trouble. Maybe more if they've damaged the ship."

It sounds like a lifetime. Bruce's chest aches for these people he doesn't know. "So we wait."

"And prepare." Steve cuts in, crossing his arms. "We don't know what kind of news they could bring with them."

"Yes." Thor agrees, his smile traded in for a more stern expression. "Their trip from Titan to here could have afforded them a run in with Thanos."

"More importantly, they could bring us something not so..." Rocket grumbles, tipping his head toward the contraption still putting off music. "Outdated."

Steve tips his head back and laughs, and Bruce can't help but return it with the one bubbling up in his throat. He feels, for just a moment, like everything hasn't gotten so twisted.


	7. Frenetic

**_Richmond, Virginia_**

_2018_

It's quiet uptown. Natasha isn't really used to the new feature of this old town.

The quiet. The unbearable silence spread thick over the airwaves like cream cheese on a bagel. It brings with it a laughable and unrealistic sense of peace.

There's always been something going on somewhere. A fight, a world altering event, a laugh, some badly named organization crawling out if its early grave to boast of fake successes and situations. But now, in the aftermath of another one of those events that has changed life as the world knew it, there's nothing. No major news, no press events, no younglings running through the streets kicking cans (_or whatever it is that kids do for fun these days_, she practically hears Steve's voice clear as crystal, _there are very different definitions of 'fun' now_) or loud music on the radio. The most exciting thing she's seen since leaving Wakanda was a group of men ransacking a local electronics store.

Not knowing what to do with the spare time - or the tight, anxious pit in her stomach - Natasha finds herself in Virginia. The modest town she's decided to coop herself up in for now is a far cry from the bustle of New York or the entrancing expanse of Wakanda. But it's familiar, easing her away from her thoughts if nothing else. She spent eight months undercover here for SHIELD, back before the Avengers Initiative and all of the chaos that followed her becoming a part of that dysfunctional family. It's nothing exciting, nothing special, but it does well enough for a momentary getaway.

_Getaway, _Natasha rolls her eyes and scoffs at herself for the mental image that conjures. Saccharine families with two kids and a dog, with white picket fences around their beachfront vacation homes. It makes it sound like her exit from Wakanda was for some rest and relaxation featuring massage therapy and scuba diving off the coast.

She has to shake her head to rid herself of the train of thought. Those are never things she's dreamt of or deluded herself into thinking she could have or was meant for. She's not on a getaway, she's in Virginia. Crawling away from the rock everyone else has hidden under to try to accomplish something. It's not that she's bitter, she gets it, but Natasha has never been the kind of person to linger in one place and kick up her feet to sip coffee and draw up plans. She likes the be on the move, in a way.

Richmond is a ghost town. The Food Lion - she's shocked it's still here, was still running before everything, considering there are so few left in the states - has empty carts scattered around the lot and the front doors are ajar. Every business she comes across has darkened windows and _Closed _signs on the doors. There are still cars abandoned on the streets, though it's clear someone - probably local authorities, what's left of them - has been making an effort to clear the roads. There's a path wide enough for one car but no one seems to be taking advantage of it other than herself.

Hell, the streets are nearly deserted. Probably due to the damage on the other side of the town. A plane dropped out of the sky, another unforeseen consequence of people just disappearing in thin air, causing just as much physical damage to the area as emotional damage. Half of the town managed to get caught in the damage, all crushed buildings and smeared landscapes spotted with places of refuge. The wreckage has barely been touched as well, leaving shops collapsed and homes devastated.

The blonde steers her borrowed midsize Sedan around the bumper of a Malibu that isn't quite outside of the white lines. The window on her side is rolled down, elbow balanced on the rim of the opening and her fist propping up her head. A rush of cold air invading the vehicle is enough to keep her awake, biting at the edges of her cheeks and pushing her hair around her face like a curtain. The cooler weather reminds her of the time of year, the upcoming holiday. Natasha spares a moment to think of Thanksgiving, looming over everyone like a sick joke. She turns the corner, thinks of Stark Tower and Pepper inviting them all to an open bar and buffet, of the year Thor came down a few days following the holiday and insisted they see what a real feast was like. She thinks of Steve the past year, struggling to bring the few of them he could together just to make sure everyone was safe and ultimately failing to collect more than just the two of them and Sam.

Without warning and with a harsh crackling noise that makes her flinch, the vehicle jerking to the side momentarily and nearly catching the sidewalk, the radio in the car comes to life. She had forgotten it was on at all, soft static transitioning to someone clearing their throat. It tears her from her thoughts, a welcome relief from the memories and 'what if's raining down on her.

_"A catastrophic event struck the globe, two months ago."_ A distinctly female voice says, slow and careful. The radio crackles again, this time with a whine, as if whoever is broadcasting is too close to their microphone. The noise makes Natasha cringe, for just a brief moment missing the silence. _"Recent reports are starting to show the true extent of the damage across the globe - involving record breaking casualties and extensive damage to many cities."_

Natasha wonders where the other person is broadcasting from. Somewhere close, more than likely. But whoever it is seems to be speaking to an audience and, well, there isn't much of that here. It's possible they're using a booster, or bouncing off of any towers left running, but the equipment and resources required for that imply a strong hand. She puts a pin in that thought, she'll come back to it when she leaves.

Taking a left, the blonde maneuvers her way toward the parking garage. The barrier for the entering side is still in place but the one in front of the exit is smashed and scattered on the cement. After a brief moment of consideration she backs the Sedan up and goes to the wrong side. The thick pieces of plastic from the ruined gate crackle under the tires of the car, reminiscent of one of those do-it-yourself welcome mats kids make parents in elementary school with cheap craft items. Then she takes the green vehicle she's commandeered down, twisting around cars and the occasional abandoned personal possession. Briefly, she wonders about the stories behind the blue duffel bag by the big truck, the makeup bag haphazardly perching on a railing, and the child's carseat tipped over in an empty parking space.

_"Government officials have yet to disclose the cause of the Incident but it has been hinted that the events involve the Avengers and their previous cohorts more than we originally thought."_

Of course. Natasha feels her lip curl in a sneer because, really, she knew it was coming. Their ragtag band of misfits is an easy scapegoat for something like this. That doesn't mean it isn't bullshit, because it is. Some of them have lived and breathed this life for at least a decade. _Had_ lived and breathed this life. She has to remind herself that they're not all here. It's easy to forget for a few moments. It makes guilt creep over her and she wears it in her stiff shoulders the same way a seasoned politician wears an ugly blazer. The faceless stranger on the radio prattles on, background noise for a few moments while her thoughts turn back to the unwilling treasures distributed along her path until she tunes back in.

_"- most of them have been notably absent in the recent months. Hawkeye, previously assumed deceased or incarcerated, was spotted in New York. The War Ma - oh, my mistake - the Iron Patriot was in D.C. earlier today."_ The radio cracks and fades the lower into the structure she goes. _"The Black Widow has even been seen on the East Coast. Some of the most notable faces of the group, however, remain unaccounted for. Captain America has been virtually nonexistent since the events at the Leipzig airport in Saxony. Iron Man himself, best known as Tony Stark, was last seen above New York involved in a confrontation involving unidentified... hostiles? The Man of Metal hasn't been seen since, and is being assumed deceased."_

Despite everything that's happened in the recent years, Natasha can practically her her heart splintering in her chest before it sinks to her stomach. They had seen the news footage and heard it from Bruce already, the object suspended over the city and a small group of heroes trying to fight off forces no one had recognized. As hard as she tries, it's impossible for her thoughts not to drift to the man in question.

_"These events have hit close to home for all of us. Even those of us who never witnessed the acts of the Avengers can -" _Tony, who helped build the Avengers, who played a part in pulling them all together by their red strings of fate and giving them a home.

_"- all are feeling the depth of this loss. The toll this is taking on everyone from the states to the far islands off the coast of -" _Tony, who should be preparing for a wedding and trying on ridiculously decorated and bedazzled suits with matching shoes and socks.

_"- but the real question we're faced with? What now? The Avengers have disbanded and the Authority is denying us any information following -" _Tony, who was the only one left in New York to defend them aside from a teenager who had no business playing hero and a couple tinkering magicians. _"- nothing to go off of, from here. This is the Rising Tide, taking over the airwaves and providing you with the only -"_

When she reaches the bottom of the building, section 3C according to the worn dark blue sign attached to one of the posts, the signal fizzles out. That's probably for the best, she decides as she clicks the knob to turn it off. The woman doesn't want to think about Clint and what he must be going through, or Tony potentially pulverized by the Titan they saw or a probable victim of the snap, or Steve pacing around Wakanda with Bruce, or Thor and the walking roadkill with their dead end ideas, or Wanda with her light accent and rich smiles, or any of the other friends they've lost. Thinking about them won't change anything. It won't bring anyone back. It won't force a solution to spark in their brains and make everything suddenly mendable.

All it's going to do is drag them all down and make rebuilding their lives harder. Natasha has been persistent in preaching this acceptance to herself and anyone who bothers to ask her opinion or insists on injecting false hopes into their conversations. Bruce had told her, shortly before she left him and their Wakandan refuge behind, that she was being just a little harsh. Realistic seems like a more appropriate word for it.

After a moment of consideration she turns the key and slides it from the ignition, causing to car to give a mild whine at the unexpected end of its trip. The sound of the car door closing echoes through the parking garage, the keys singing as metal clinks against metal when she hooks them around one of her belt loops. Even her footfalls, typically almost undetectable, seem obnoxiously loud. The gentle thud of her boots against the cement grates on her nerves until she purposefully steps lighter. Heel, then toe. Heel, then toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

She repeats this movement until she reaches the wall ahead of the car. Barely visible against the shadows on the pale grey structure, there's a patch of metal. Natasha rests her left thumb there until the cool metal has warmed to the same temperature as her skin. There's a telling _click!_ prompting her to move her hand and the metal slides back and to the side to reveal a light blue panel. It flashes once before a light extends from the spot, taking in her appearance from her waist up. It blinks twice this time, the light shifting from blue to green.

"Romanoff." She says, staring down the device as if it's going to argue with her. "Level Six clearance."

The silence is broken by a series of metallic noises, shifting and clanking until the metal panel slides to cover the light again. For a few moments Natasha is sure Fury - or whoever the public head of SHIELD is now, they've left it pretty vague recently and she's not all that entangled there anymore - has revoked her access. She would be lying to say she isn't a little offended at the idea.

Before she has too much time to think on that and actually get offended, the corner of the wall eases back and slides to the side just enough to make room for one person to slide through. She slips through quickly and the wall slides back into place behind her. The materials making up the makeshift entryway grind against each other as they move, evidence of the age of the facility. Despite the offensive noise, Natasha eyes the SHIELD insignia at the end of the hall and feels some of the tightness leave her shoulders. To anyone else the thin hallways and locked doors might seem intimidating. For her it almost feels like coming home.

Much like the parking garage and the rest of the town, the facility is eerily still around her. Evacuated, after the crash? Abandoned, maybe? It wouldn't be a huge shock for that to be the case. SHIELD has lost a lot in numbers in recent years and anyone who was left after the snap likely weighed their options and ducked out while no one was looking. While she doesn't necessarily blame them, a part of her thinks Fury would have done it more justice in his time. Her footsteps bounce off of the walls and the sound of her breathing seems to do the same before falling back into her ears.

The empty corridors seem to open up for her, widening themselves to welcome her after such a long time away. Natasha runs her fingertips along the raised insignia on the wall as she passes. The familiar space provides her with a sense of comfort she didn't even realize she needed. As she wanders toward the command center - some number of hallways and four doors away - her thoughts stray to the past. Images of her and Clint laying low here flash across her mind. The man downing cup after cup of coffee while they reviewed footage in the control room. She remembers when their cover was blown and he ensured that she wasn't riddled with bullet holes while they ran circles around the city to get them off of their trail. Dodging other agents in the streets. She remembers his uproar of laughter when they finally made it inside and realized she had lost a whole chunk of her hair in the scuffle. Without thinking about it, her hand comes up to move through her blonde locks and feel for the small patch where the hair never quite grew back right.

The mission hadn't gone according to plan. Bad intel and a compromised escape route had led to her raving about the bald spot on her skull for weeks. A ghost of a fond smile twitches across her lips, a whisper of hope curls up in her chest. They had joked, for years after their extended stay in the facility, that this was where they would come to go dark. Not for the first time since then, Natasha hopes Clint remembers too. But when she finally reaches her destination and places her palm flat on the scanner, it's not her partner waiting behind the sliding door. There's no messy brunette hair or expressive blue eyes or lopsided grin and snarky comment to greet her.

"You missed him by about half a day." The man is seated facing one of the consoles, drenched in a pale blue light. She can't see his face but his voice makes her vascular organ crawl from her chest to the back of her mouth to keep her tonsils company. "To be frank I was expecting you a lot sooner, Agent Romanoff."

"The afterlife must not be exciting," as hard as she tries to fight it the words feel thick in her throat. "You had to come home to crash the end of the world?"

Her surprise companion gives a quiet, mirthless laugh as he pushes back the chair and turns to face her. The older man braces a hand on the console to push himself from the seat and Natasha notes that he looks worse for wear. Dark bags hang under his eyes and there are fading bruises across his hands and going from his collarbone to hide under his shirt. He looks thinner in the face, too, maybe due to stress maybe due to a lack of personal care. After a few beats of silence the initial shock gives way to disgruntled and slightly offended anger. It must show on her face, in the tightness of her lips and the set of her jaw, because the man offers a placating smile and a raise of his shoulders.

"I _was_ retired."

"That's what they always say." Natasha drawls the words, brows pulling together. It takes her a moment to place the emotion burrowing into her chest. _Hurt. _"Who else knows?"

"Agent May, Maria Hill, Nick Fury, Director Mackenzie. But that was before." Agent Phil Coulson drops his shoulders as he approaches, and he has the decency to let his expression twist with guilt. "We have a lot to catch up on."

He gestures to the round table near the center of the room, covered in papers with scribbled out information and thick block letters written over them, photos and charts held at the center. Natasha stays standing, planting her hands on the table as she leans to get a better view of his haul. Coulson joins her a moment later, digging a pen out of his pocket and pointing at one of the images closest to them. It looks to be taken from surveillance footage of the room they're currently in, featuring a hooded man in black and gold hunched over one of the consoles. Beside it is another with the same man, hood pushed over his shoulders to reveal sloppily cut hair. Clint. He certainly doesn't look good, or quite like himself, but it's him.

"Barton has been compromised." Coulson says shortly, rubbing at his bruised hand. For the first time, it occurs to the redhead that their missing associate might be responsible for the state of their old friend. "He's heading to Kyoto. Tracking down a former affiliate of the Hand."

The photo beside that is of a woman, hair tied back and one hand extended down to the pages of a book. She looks older than Natasha, but still very fit. On her hip is a long staff that looks like it has a latch near the middle. A hidden blade, maybe. Another shows the event in New York, probably taken from the news footage, a massive structure hovering above the city and one ugly motherfucker standing under it.

Most of the images follow the same vein, some including the Infinity Stones SHIELD had the luck of getting into their hands. The Tesseract, Vision. Coulson points out a few more to her, along with copies upon copies of files and data. A thicker stack of papers is pushed closer to her, labeled boldly at the top with TAHITI. Glancing over it, Natasha eyes the other agent in her peripheral as he gathers up a few papers that must belong together.

"Okay." She says finally, after their mutual moment of taciturnity passes. "Let's catch up, then."

**_The Andromeda Galaxy  
_**_2018_

"Okay."

There's a room near the back of the Benatar, tucked behind a large rotator. Tony thinks it must have been used for storage, there are nutrient packets, blankets, everyday essentials, and various other nonvaluables scattered throughout the drawers and cabinets. It's far enough from everything else to ensure some privacy, unless his companion comes looking for him. Which... is unlikely.

Nebula hasn't shown much interest in him, aside from when he's grating on her nerves or playfully dancing along the brink of death. To be fair, she hasn't shown much interest in anything other than patricide, weapons, and piloting their ride. The cyborg probably doesn't even have interests outside of that. Tony is willing to bet she has a hyperfocusing problem, and maybe that's why she can't spare a moment to think of anything outside of that box. This is not a point that would help his case, however, so he's willing to keep it to himself.

Settled on top of the nearest surface, the face of Iron Man stares back at him before the opticals flicker with a pale blue light that floods the room and takes him in. Audio and video recordings won't transmit to anywhere useful out in space, but there's a bit of consolation in being able to record their time spent in the ship and track what they discover. A tiny whisper in the furthest parts of his brain says _if_ _they_ _don't_ _make_ _it_, at _least_ _something_ _will_.

"You would kill me, Pep, if you knew how I got this." Tony laughs and takes a breath. In his hands is a small glass dish that, upon closer inspection, reveals a tiny metal seal keeping it shut. The small black organism inside has strectched to cover the side nearest his hand as if listening. "I couldn't pass it up, you would understand."

The dish vibrates lightly in his hand, the sensation similar to a laugh. He raises it toward his face to examine it up close. The light buzzing has stopped and Tony wonders if maybe the sleep deprivation and blood loss are causing him to hallucinate. It wouldn't be out of the realm of belief. When he squints and gives it a suspicious look the thing inside flexes and widens to fill the entire container. He's pretty sure it shouldn't be able to do that.

"Or maybe you wouldn't, but it was like... I knew it was important. Whatever _it_ is." He grumbles, giving the mask a pointed stare. "I'm going to see how it interacts with the nanotech. It's flexible, seems to be self sustaining. If it can work with the bots I might be able to use it to stabalize my injury and use the nanobots currently taking up residence in my chest - without paying rent, mind you, I should be charging them - to repair the suit. I'll have to expose it to other elements first, try to figure out what it's housing..."

The brunette trails off in mutters to himself as he turns the glass containment object in his hand and notes the way the creature inside shifts to accommodate. Eventually it seems to grow bored, sinking itself to one side and firmly rooting itself there no matter which way he rotates it. It seems resilient enough, incredibly capable. But he can't shake the way Nebula reacted when their Haze had tried to point her to them. The outlaw certainly can't be described as trustworthy, but it was easy enough to tell he and the luphomoid were on the same side.

"Unfortunately," he sighs as he hides his new friend away again. "I get the feeling that if I open this, Flubber is going to have a mind of its own and run out on me."

Leaning back into the wall, Tony shifts his gaze to the large viewport to his right to take in the sight of space. It's nice and the genius in him wants to explore and discover and learn, but the rest of him is sore and tired and maybe a little delirious. Having his feet planted in the dirt again would be nice. Not questioning whether or not his only companion is going to throw him into space each day would be nice.

"And as much as I would love to be Robin Williams - or even Fred MacMurray, if we're going old school, and I think we are - it's pretty clear I've been skipping a few workouts." Tony holds up a hand, shaking his head. "I know, I _know_, what would _Jaq_ say? Something profound and deeply disturbing enough to make me feel guilty down in my bones."

The helmet's brightened gaze doesn't waver, the jaw doesn't shift on its hinge to respond to him. The only response he gets is from the distant hum of some machine or another, presumably his alien companion roaming around.

Nebula cut the music a few hours ago, snipping something about the lack of extra resources and the unnecessary usage of power. It's an unfortunate loss, but it's worth it to keep breathing and get home. _Get_ _home_, the thought has been going over and over in his head like a broken record since they got on this ship. Make it to the next station, don't get killed in the homicidal version of Blue's Clues, _get_ _home_.

Thinking past that is never good. In the past few months - he's finally convinced his traveling companion to help him translate a few basic things into something understandable now, so he can keep track of the days - he's at least learned that much. It all leads back to the same thing: everyone he's cared for, piled up at the end of a rocky warzone like a bloody signature. Whispered accusations and harsh questions. A black hole opening in his chest, replacing the reactor that kept him alive and draining everything from him. Nothing.

The silence is broken by a harsh release of his breath. "Same time tomorrow?"

The phrase causes the light covering him to fade, the remnants of the Iron Man suit going dark. The brunette reaches up to scratch at his quickly overgrowing beard and then he turnes on his heel to exit the room. He'll have to shave again, it's decided. Maybe after he digs up something to eat and tears apart a few more weapons for parts...

"Stark!"

Rather abruptly, Tony is torn from his thoughts by the taller figure stalking toward him from the living quarters. The Luphomoid strikes an imposing figure, though he supposes it's kind of hard not to when you're laced with various metals and lethal objects. That doesn't mean she has to prowl around looking all murder happy like she's going to spontaneously change her mind about his company and release him into deep space, but to each their own.

"Stark!"

At least she's not calling him _puddle_ _scum_ or _squishy_ _weakling_ anymore, though, and he's willing to take that as a win. Hell, he would be willing to risk saying that he's starting to grow on her. He could write a book on this, when he gets back to New York. _Convincing_ _Aliens_ _of_ _Your_ _Worth_ _and_ _Fifty_ _Other_ _Tricks_ _I_ _Learned_ _in_ _Space_ by Tony Stark. That would be a best seller, probably. People will read anything these days.

"Why are you staring at me like one of the furry mutts you idolize on your throneworld." Nebula has her brow drawn down, tapping a finger on one of her arms impatiently. "You did not listen to a single thing I said."

Tony shrugs and edges past her to get to the small refrigeration unit. "I was in the middle of my next best idea."

This seems to be acceptable for now, because she nods. "I will..." She pauses, grimacing as if her next words physically hurt her. "I will _need_ you to watch the Benatar."

Before he can stop it, he snorts. Nebula, daughter of the Titan Thanos, master dueler, enhanced cyborg, needs _him_ to do something. She's full of shit. And she's doing a terrible job of hiding it. The muscles in her cheek are twitching like she can barely stop herself from retracting the statement purely due to pride.

"Oh, no, Liara, don't flatter me." He snaps the door shut, deciding on something in a light grey packaging that has the consistency of yogurt and the taste of carrot cake. It's his favorite so far, not that he has many options. "You're sneaking out on me in the night, like a bad husband."

"We are low on fuel and supplies." She says shortly, settling herself at the controls again and putting something in.

Tony mutters his next words around his food, free hand gesturing widely. "So 'et me c'me w'th you. I can c'rry things."

"Chew and swallow." Big, dark eyes look over her shoulder at him. Almost chiding, but mostly annoyed. "I'm sure even you, one of the lowest of life forms, can do that."

He swallows the last of his food before speaking this time, a little petulantly. "You're totally ignoring the point. I'm not going to be very helpful left here."

"I am not. I was... taking the time to educate you properly, like your guardians failed to do." She diverts her gaze quickly. "This is a central spaceport. We need to... lay low. Keep our ears down."

"Heads down." He corrects her airily. She grunts a response as he discards his trash in the waste and returns to his most recent abandoned project: a partially disassembled shock net. "If we're going for discreet, I don't think you're going to hit the mark."

"You stick out too much. Humans are uncommon in these circles. You will only be a nuisance." She shrugs but the movement is jerky, unpracticed, and her voice is sharp. Tony wonders how many times she's done it before. "You'll stay. Keep the ship."

Fishing out a small gear and a cone, Tony leans back and inspects the metal piece on his chest before turning to look at Nebula. She's staring rather pointedly at a vertical series of numbers on the bottom left of her screen that he has recently learned just represent the date. Trying to look busy, to avoid him. He knows how to recognize that much.

He tries to ignore it and figure out some way to talk her into letting him follow. Focus on trying to make unfamiliar machinery match up with what he already has. But he can't, it nibbles at the back of his brain and out of the corner of his eye, though, he can see her shifting and placing something in her arm, hears the familiar buzz of an ion blaster powering up. It reminds him of the noise the original Iron Man suit would emit when he first started it up, all heavy metal and artillery. For a second, a brief moment where his feet sink in the sand and his mouth feels dry and dirty, he's teleported to Afghanistan.

"We're going to be getting shot at, aren't we." He finally deadpans.

"Of course not." Nebula says quickly, but her tone is tight and her posture is stiff. He thinks her gaze flicks to the side and then back to the controls, but it's hard to tell.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a terrible liar?" With a roll of his eyes, Tony turns his attention back to his work on the suit.

"No." She says sharply, turning this time to face him better and blinking. "Am I?"

"Worse than Pinocchio." He pops the 'p' obnoxiously.

Scowling, Nebula rolls her shoulders. "I don't -"

"- understand that reference, I know." Tony nods, once. "He's a puppet."

This doesn't seem to get rid of the confusion, as her features only twist more. She manages to look a little offended through her confusion, lips pursed and posture stiff as she turns just enough to glare at him from the corner of her eyes. It's one of her more common expressions, eagerly handed out when he gifts her with another nickname or starts to question her about hyposprays or Google Glass or VISORS.

"_You_ are a puppet." The cyborb mutters spitefully, reminiscent of a pouting child as she faces the controls and swipes something to the side. "I am not the one with a set of malleable bones and virtually unprotected brainstem."

The ship goes quiet again, just for a few beats, as Tony considers all of the new questions he has. Another day, another list of queries for his Luphomoid companion.

Does Nebula think human bones are soft? Do all aliens think humans have soft bones? Is she simply referencing the fact that babies bones fuse together when they get older? Is she joking, maybe? Do most aliens have some kind of special protection for their brainstems? Or are they are in different places? Is she bringing it up simply as a vulnerable splot or is there something more important behind the statement? Something humans don't know about yet, or maybe something more sinister? Is threatening his life going to be their 'forever?'

He has tell himself that there will be time to unpack that one and get through the layers of it later.

"His nose grows when he lies." Tony finally decides to say, disconnecting a train of charges and putting them off to the side. Their cases could be reduced for more nanobite replacement parts, the charges themselves a battery. "Who's going to be shooting at us?"

Nebula says nothing, refusing to answer for long enough that he begins to wonder if she is really going to avoid the conversation indefinitely. "Sovereign, mostly. Hurctarians. Interdites."

"Right." When she doesn't provide any further explanation or threaten him again, he continues probing. "Those are...?"

"The Sovereign are genetically engineered and wired for perfection. Golden morons. Hurctarians are given cybernetic implants on their skulls during childhood and are very... dry."

"Dry?" Tony snorts. "Are you taste testing them? Making Hurct-Jerky?"

"Their skin flakes and is replaced over the period of their lunar cycle." Nebula responds very matter-of-factly. "They require very little hydration and are rumored to enjoy dirt baths." At the grimace she receives from Tony, she continues. "Interdites are... _mystics _mostly. Yellow eyes, big ears, hue similar to my own. Their throneworld was rendered uninhabitable during war with the Badoon centuries ago, they frequent these places."

Without giving her any time to even begin explaining, the injured man perks up again. "Badoon?"

"Big, green, reptilian." She waves off his interest in the other lifeforms, going through various stages of preparation. "The Sovereign will be the ones to concern yourself with. If they attempt to board the Benetar you will shoot them."

Tony scoffs, looking up from his project so fast that he accidentally shocks himself. "What, you were just going to have me set up a tea part for them before?"

"You are intuitive." This is the closest to a compliment he's ever gotten from Nebula. He is practically swooning, not that she's turning around to appreciate it. "You would have figured it out."

**_Somewhere  
_**_?_

There are a few rules Scott has learned to live by since he becoming an adult. If you can get away with it, it might be worth it still might not be worth it. Don't start get involved in any fights you can't win. The people you care about come before everything else. If you see something bad run the other way do something. Don't believe everything you hear.

And rules he learned as a child. You shouldn't lie. Sharing is caring. (This one, he found later in life was a funny excuse for light theft.) Admit when you're wrong. Respect your elders. Don't talk to strangers.

"How far away did you say you were?" Scott poses his question into the radio, giving the blue light a number of feet away his most suspicious look. "Not that I'm rushing you or anything, the view out here is uh... Something."

Right on cue, one of the large beasts inhabiting the Quantum Realm makes a path overhead. And then, the communicator crackles to life with mirth. "_I_ _didn't_."

"Well..." The tardigrade circles back, lingering over his still unnamed vehicle. "Are you going to?"

Whatever comes next is covered by static, an interruption in the signal that is bound to come when you're not really in the world as you know it. It had happened when he was on with the Pyms, too, quickly enough that he was able to ignore it. This time it seems to last much longer. The static thickens until it becomes physical, thick under his tongue and buzzing around his fingers and numbing his cheeks.

The world shifts around him, from warm hues to cool ones. All the ice on the edges melts and drifts and blues go purple, the whites ombre to green. In the distance bubbles collide and combust, leaving fragments that spark when they touch the ground. The ground underneath his feet decays and goes dark before a light burns underneath and breeds color to the surface again. Stars collapse and batteries go dead and civilizations crumble and crawl up from the rubble and Scott wonders if he's been here forever, if he's going to be like this forever.

The static burns his ears. Scott feels like he can taste it near his tonsils, feels like all he's ever heard is this blurred television cut signal static moving from one ear and making a path through his auriculars and around the hills and valleys of his brain to reach the other side.

"- _I_ _repeat_, _this_ _is_ _Agent_ _Marvel_ _requesting_ _clearance_ _through_ _all_ _available_ _channels_."

Ahead of him, the blue light blinks out of existence and then back a few feet closer. The echo of roaring waves in Scott's head simmers down to the sound of a sink filling.

He puts his elbows onto the cracked dashboard of the Helicanter - because, really, he has to call it something - and lets his head hang while he reminds himself to breathe. It can't have been more than a moment, a few minutes, but maybe this is what Janet meant when she said being here changes people. Maybe Quantum Entanglement has more to do with this realm digging a hole into your person than they thought. It might be good to compare notes when he gets back, if he remembers more of his experiencw this time.

"I don't think you're on the right frequency for that." He manages finally, eyes squeezed shut.

"_You're_ _back_." Captain Marvel, as he knows her, sounds surprised. "_Where_ _did_ _you_ _go_?" She asks.

Scott doesn't know how to answer that, without getting into the specifics and that seems a little too heavy for this scenario. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"_Now_ _that_," she starts with a huff. "_I_ _find_ _hard_ _to_ _believe_. _I_ _could_ _say_ _the_ _same_ _to_ _you_, _about_ _where_ _I've_ _been_."

"Yeah?" He snorts and lifts his head, watches the blue light drift around him and away again as the masses in the distance mold into new forms. "Try me."

_**Wakanda  
**__2018_

The end of the world has taught people to appreciate the little things. The picturesque sight of orange and red hues colliding with the green outline of trees as the sun drops away. Warm coffee at dawn, when the city starts to wake up. The sounds of what should be a city in the day, bustling and full of life. Moments bursting at the seams with laughter and jokes and the company of another person.

There are a lot of things that no one can find time to appreciate, now. Things that you can't find in the ashes of Earth.

Which is how Rocket finds himself on the outer edges of Shuri's home they've invaded, in a room with tall glass ceilings and windows that never end. It's filled with greenery. Trees and bushes and different grasses and weeds, flowers and snapping plants and vines crawling along one of the would-be walls. In the center of the room is an extraordinarily tall tree. It climbs past the ceiling, shifting through a carefully crafted gap and providing a small amount of shade to the area. Beyond that is a more colorful variety of plantlife, scattered along the walkways and hanging from the ceilings and windows.

The greenery looks like it's hardly been touched since the snap, aside from a few carefully maintained plants and herbs. The raccoon wonders if whoever cared for it before died in the snap or simply lost their desire to care for it after losing everything else. It's well enough for him, though. He can scale the trees and get away from most people. The hideaway certainly isn't home, but Rocket would be lying if he said it doesn't calm his nerves.

"Rabbit!"

Of course, he's learning very quickly that Wakanda full of enhanced humans and god men is full of as many disruptions as space was with the Guardians running around it.

Rocket rolls on the branch he's decided to occupy, staring up at the leaves and the light filtering through them. Thor is the only one plucky enough to keep chasing him down. He has some kind of Rocket Radar, tracking him down in record time every day. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the hulking blonde approaching, stepping over pots and occasionally stopping to whisper conspiratorially to some of the plants. The sight of his form towering over the plants as he bends down to encouragingly pat them is kind of funny.

It isn't that he dislikes Thor, quite the opposite really. But having more than ten minutes of peace might be nice.

"Alright, Rabbit, it is time to come down." The aforementioned man clears his throat. "I can see your tail, you can no longer pretend you are not up there."

The voice reaching him from the base of the tree causes him to startle. He hadn't even noticed him getting closer. Apparently the god _can_ be stealthy when he wants to be. Heaving a long sigh, the raccoon rolls to the side and off of the branch. His vest catches on the bark on the way, but it's withstood worse. At the halfway mark, Rocket curls his claws into a branch to stop again. From there it's an easy enough drop, and his claws make a distinct _click!_ when he hits the floor.

"How'd ya know I was up there?" He asks finally, looking up at his companion.

Giving him a thousand watt smile, the short haired man gestures to a vibrant yellow plant. "The fig told me."

"Bullshit." Rocket snipes, teeth clacking together. "The _fig_ told you. You have a special course on talking to all the terran flora, too?"

"Maybe." Thor replies cheekily.

Rocket huffs, pushing at the Asgardian's leg as he passes. He takes the action in stride, keeping step with the raccoon easily. The axe on his hip swings as he walks, wood and metal and the last remnants of his sentient tree-like friend.

The first few weeks, he had waited for something to sprout from the wood intricately wound around the joint axe-hammer. He had expected Groot to spring up from the end with a recognizable shimmy, as if nothing ever happened. But Stormbreaker never budged, never showed any signs of new life. Whatever Asgardian magic has been woven into the Uru metal has made it something else entirely, there's no pieces left of his friend for him to re-spawn from.

"What now?" Rocket asks blandly. "The mint give you a great new recipe for me to try? Did the lilacs tell you a secret? No, wait, I'm betting the dandelions gave you some tips on interstellar communications."

"Don't be outlandish, Rabbit." Thor shakes his head. "Weeds aren't advanced enough to converse with us."

He's full of _shit. _Rocket knows it, he knows it, the entirety of Wakanda probably knows it with how long they've been there. Over the past few months - _three months, one week, six days_ \- the rebel king has been testing all of them. Pretending to be ignorant to things he definitely knows about, like wormholes. Pretending to know all about things he's entirely ignorant of, like Earth's technology and more specifically how email works. And now, pretending to communicate with the local flora and fauna. Or... maybe pretending that the only kind he can't talk to is weeds. Rocket isn't sure which one is more likely.

"Unfortunately." Rocket sighs eventually, eying the plant life suspiciously as they pass. "They've probably got more to talk about than any of you."

"I find that unlikely." The large man laughs, but the tone of his words isn't quite so sunny. "They have remarkably short lifespans in comparison to even yours, but especially my own."

"And yet, I'm sure they could find something more interesting to talk about."

Shaking his head, Thor begins to lead the way through the winding halls of the palace. "Okay, my friend, I will give you interesting. You have an assignment."

"Assigment?" Rocket sneers the word, squinting up his companion. "I don't remember agreein' to being an underling for your band of merry bastards."

"Fine." Thor shrugs amicably. "Then I would ask you to do me a favor."

Normally, the raccoon would demand a reward. But desperate times... "Alright."

"I would ask that you travel to our compound with Steven -"

"- who the hell is _Steven_?" Rockets snaps indignantly.

The blonde frowns, tries again. "Captain America -"

"- _Captain Do-Good_?" Rocket spits, fur bristling, as he tries to restrain himself. "You're sendin' me to the other side of the planet with _that _guy? Seriously?"

"I assure you, Steven is an ideal traveling companion." Thor nods to him, for all intents and purposes the picture of reassuring.

The conversation is interrupted by a sigh and a tight, tired voice. "He also has superb hearing."

Just down the hall a few doors, someone is waiting for them. Tall, blonde, built similar to the Asgardian aside from his height and a slight weight difference. The original Avengers is frowning at them, expression on the borderline of offense. Rocket, determined to ignore the social blunder he's sure he is currently enduring, strides right past him.

Both of the humans follow him into the room, the door shutting with a nearly silent _shhck_! behind them. If he were more informed of Earth, and the normal interactions between species here, Rocket would make some kind of joke about being on the opposite end of the leash. That kind of thing is right up his alley, a little harsh and properly humiliating with just a dash of self deprecation around the corner.

"None of us know what Tony was researching before the attack." Steve says as they're getting settled, the Asgardian perching on a stool that certainly doesn't look meant to bear his weight and the raccoon clawing his way onto a countertop.

"I'm sorry, but not really," Rocket chortles as he seats himself. "Are you saying one _single_ person from your planet was capable of comin' up with something better than the _entire_ galaxy?"

"No." The man out of time grimaces.

"He -" Rocket waves to Thor with one paw and the indicated man waves, "- has a Thanos-oriented-redemption-fueled battle axe."

The superhuman drops his shoulders and seems to be debating with himself, the corners of his eyes creased and jaw set. Whatever conclusion he's coming to doesn't look to be positive. The other man in the room looks to be deep in thought, staring past the beige cabinets and into something no one else can see. All the raccoon sees is the two of them, looking less present than he's ever seen anyone in a moment like this. And that's a lot, considering who he's been partnered with recently.

"He's right." Just as Rocket is puffing up with delight at the positive recognition, Thor continues. "Stark had been preparing for this since Ultron."

"Wanda never told us what she showed him." Steve interjects, brows high on his forehead.

"That does not mean the results of whatever he prepared for could not be useful."

The two go quiet, exchanging a look. Rocket waits, confused and a little irritated at being out of the loop. He's not getting something, obviously. There's some backstory, some context, he's missing here. It's like he has half of a puzzle, but mostly the outside edges. And the more they look at each other, the further back his ears fall until he's pulling his lips back in a scowl.

He lets the silence drag, his impatience causing him to dig his claws across the stone of the countertop. The more he waits, the more apparent it becomes that there isn't going to be a long winded explanation coming up unless he digs for one. Unfortunately, Rocket doesn't care to do that. Any attempts at story time this far have only agitated him, and it wouldn't be surprising for this to end the same way. So he'll wait, instead. Let the two humanoid figures in the room hold their nonverbal conversation until they remember they're not alone.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to build containment cubes, like the Tesseract." Steve says after what feels like centuries. "That was their plan for the Mind Stone, the scepter, until von Strucker stole it."

"You think he would attempt the same." Thor returns, voice even but expression concerned.

Taking a breath, the poster-child for righteousness nods. "Vision was a success."

Isn't that the disembodied voice in the lab? Vision... That sounds right, but with all the new and unfamiliar faces Rocket can't be sure.

"Vision and his body were more than a triumph of Stark." The taller man points out, cocking his head to the side. "There were many hands in that pot."

Speaking of hands in the pot, the raccoon shuffles his way across the counter until he can reach one of the little round storage pods balanced on the surface. He's been swiping them from every room he can find, partially for the novelty of having a thousand perfect spheres that don't roll and partially for the goods inside. Sometimes it's books or electronics, handmade items, but most often they're filled with snacks and Rocket considers that a win-win. This one in particular is home to cookies that smell like ginger and give a satisfying _snap_! when he halves them.

"Everything with Ultron would have been stepping stones for this." Steve says firmly, already convinced.

Apparently that's all it takes because the Asgardian nods and rises. "When will you leave?"

"In the morning."

"Hold up." Rocket snaps another cookie in half, one paw in the air as if to hit 'pause' on the conversation. "Did I agree to go anywhere? What do _I_ get out of this?"

First to the draw is Thor. "The chance to explore a new planet and to gain new experiences?"

"The satisfaction of making literally any amount of effort to do something?"

"No, that doesn't sound right." Rocket taps a claw on his treat before popping it into his mouth and crunching it between his canines obnoxiously. "Access to and first call on everything."

"Everything?" Steve grimaces again, clearly unsure, and looks to the other blonde for help.

"Everything." Rocket agrees, trying and failing to put a whole cookie in his maw before he gives up and breaks that one too. "I'm talkin' potted plants, engineered appendages, mechanics, wiring, food. Definitely the food."

The human looks around, another obvious cry for assistance from their Asgardian companion. All he receives in response is a halfhearted shrug and a lopsided frown to say '_we_ _don't_ _have_ _a_ _lot_ _of_ _other_ _options_.' Rocket gets it. If someone were pawing at all of their belongings on the ship and taking what they please, he certainly wouldn't take kindly to it either. But, judging from what he's heard so far, the missing mechanic isn't going to be needing the equipment any time soon. It's unlikely, if not impossible, that he's survived any confrontation woth Thanos or his children. Man of Metal or not, there are limits to what one human can do. And if he isn't going to be around to make use of his things, well, there's no point in letting it go to waste.

Flicking his tail, the raccoon lifts his shoulders at Steve and tries again. "Fair's fair."

"Zero six hundred, feet off the ground." The captain says finally, rubbing a hand on his cheek, and Rocket has to force himself not to inflate at the victory. "Have everything you need ready by then."

"Worry about yourself, _Cap_." He taps a claw on the countertop, baring his teeth in a wide grin. "I'm not the one who has to pack my luggage."


	8. Stimulating

**_Wakanda  
_**_2018_

Shuri has made plenty of bad decisions in her life. Replacing her brother's soap with a blue skin coloring gel that she convinced him was permanent. Adding the wrong compound to an experiment and catching a new dress on fire. Neglecting her school related studies in favor of enhancing technology. Missing important events because she lost track of the time in the laboratory. Arranging a party for her father's birthday and telling everyone including their family the wrong location as a prank. And now, staring at the teeth shaped necklace that she knows is a perfect fit for her neck and wondering what it will be like to wear it.

At first it had been for a joke. She was going to impersonate T'Challa for Halloween, strut around in the dark suit and flex vibranium claws for the sake of good fun. It was going to be hilarious, kicking his ass with her tech under his superhero identity. And now, it's not. There's nothing funny about looking at the nude necklace and knowing that the Black Panther - or, the most recent one - is out of commission. There's nothing funny about the heaviness in her chest or the burn in her eyes as she looks at the garment.

Five months. That's how long it's been since the Titan snapped his fingers and the universe collapsed around his hand. Almost half a year. And they've gotten no farther than when she first managed to piece Vision, what was left of his mind at least, back together and house him in the lab. He says he doesn't mind and Thor says progress takes patience and Bruce, well, he doesn't say much of anything either way. Shuri thinks that's for himself as well as them, not raising false hopes or shutting what's left of them down. None of it seems right, or fair, but that's the way things are now and there isn't much to be done about it.

"I hate to interrupt," comes the gentle voice of the aforementioned dead man, his light form flashing as it rotates a few feet away. "But you look like you could use a break."

"I should have taken the coddling out of your code." She sighs, shaking her head and retreating from the suit.

"It's not coddling." Vision sounds a little affronted. "You haven't left the lab in eighteen hours."

At that, Shuri scoffs. Eighteen hours is nothing. Her record is three days. "I don't need to leave the lab." She points out. "I can have food delivered, there's a restroom installed in the hall, a shower in the decontamination unit -"

Before she can get any farther into her what else could a girl want speech, Vision interrupts. "I can assure you that I have heard all of these arguments before, and you are making an incredibly valid point, omitting the fact that you've mentioned nothing in the way of adequate sleeping situations here. But there are things outside of this lab - not consisting of things the average human needs to simply keep functioning - that are beneficial to standard mental health..."

That's around where Shuri tunes him out. She knows what he's going to say already, they've had this conversation a thousand times it feels like. Each time has ended with him nudging and prodding until she's left the lab to stew in her room or outside for a few hours. This time, she is determined to ignore him. She's finally on the verge of... something. She isn't exactly sure what, but something, surely.

She can feel it in her fingertips, buzzing and sparking every time she picks up a tablet or tunes into the overhead. Bits and pieces of scattered frequencies, abnormalities near Los Angeles, and the occasional hum of questionable tunes outside.

"If you're going to ignore me, the least you could do is hum or nod along." The new voice makes Shuri's head whip up, big umber eyes blinking rapidly when she finds herself faced with the Queen Mother. Her long white hair is hidden behind a structured grey hat, matched perfectly to the long sleeved gown she has on. Her expression is serious but her tone is soft, russet eyes warm with fondness. "Ah, now I have your attention."

Shuri has the decency to look embarrassed, but she approaches her mother with an apologetic smile. "Mama, I was -"

"No. Don't tell me." Ramonda raises a hand to stop her before placing it on the younger girl's elbow to pull her into a soft embrace in greeting. When she pulls back and releases her youngest, she looks around thoughtfully. Her gaze lingers on the tangled mess of lights suspended and silently shifting nearby before moving to the necklace-wearing mannequin and updated vibranium gauntlets. "You've been busy."

"I've been busy since I learned how to walk."

"You don't need to tell me that."

The two sepia skinned women share a laugh, one of those brief moments of relief following the end of the world. It takes some of the tension from Romanda's shoulders, softens the lines of worry and grief at the edges of her lips and eyes. Losing T'Chaka and T'Challa in such a short span of time, both at the hands of deluded men, has left the Queen Mother worse off than her daughter has ever seen her. Even when they were exiled, her age never showed as well as it does now. The years look to be taking their toll, finally.

Keeping her smile and trying to preserve the lightened mood as well, Shuri lays a hand on her mother's shoulder to guide her to one of the tables. Shimmying onto one of the tall, slender stools, she gestures at the other to encourage her mother to make herself comfortable. She takes the cue, though her movements are considerably more fluid and graceful. The teenager hasn't quite mastered that part of the role, and she's a little jealous of the ease with which her mother moves. Every movement seems purposeful and gentle, smooth and careful. It can be hard to apply any of these to Shuri consistently. Typically it's more along the line of tumultuous, excited, sharp, and wild. Even with her size taken into consideration, she has a hard time keeping away from being a bull in a china shop.

"Captain Rogers departed three weeks ago." Romanda pauses, making a rare face of distaste. "Along with our feral companion."

"Rocket." Shuri corrects her, delighting in the face her mother makes again. It's no secret she doesn't exactly approve of the loud, foul-mouthed raccoon who was sharing their home. "It has been much quieter without them."

"I wouldn't exactly say that." This time her red painted lips quirk upward rather affectionately. It's obvious she's referring to Thor and his antics, consistently coming around to arrange group events. She taps a finger on the table, as if she has something to say and she can't figure out how. "Doctor Banner is asleep outside." She says finally, instead. "We thought he looked too peaceful to move him."

"Mama!" The younger of them tries to look reproachful, but mostly she's just entertained. It's nice not to be the one left at the dining table or in the gardens because of an impromptu nap. "You did not leave him out there."

Ramonda hums conspiratorially. "Okoye agreed with me." When her offspring goes to sigh, she interrupts. "As well as Nakia."

They must have been outside training, Shuri realizes. What remains of the Dora Milaje have been quiet and inactive in the past four months, each mourning for their comrades. Their families. For their King. The general herself had enough to deal with before, with W'Kabi's exile scheduled. Nakia only returned two weeks ago, covered in such a think layer of dirt and grime she seemed to have carved her way out of her own grave. She must have joined them in their attempts at setting some kind of routine again. Something normal.

As the thought crosses her mind, it causes her blood to run cold. For the first time in months, the teenage genius hits a wall. The idea that things could - are, _will _\- eventually have to go back to normal is terrifying. It implies that people are giving up. That they're forgetting what things are supposed to be like. That they've accepted this new life, whatever it's supposed to be. Accepted that one single Barney-adjacent alien could simply walk into their lives and demolish them with no consequences.

Which is ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. She's just _now _onto something and they're only just starting to decipher the vague logs and chicken scratch Tony Stark has left behind. This is the exact opposite of a good time to fall back on normalcy and divert their focus from the end goal.

She's been quiet too long. Shuri realizes it when her mother's face tilts with worry, eyes searching her features for some hint at what gears are turning in her head. She forces a smile as her mind whirs back into work. She knows it isn't very convincing, she can feel the tightness in pull of her lips and the way her eyebrow twitches and quirks. Her face has always been too open, easy to read. At least T'Challa was capable of keeping a straight face (usually) when he needed to.

"We can't leave him out there all day," the girl with the braided hair huffs, eyes twinkling with a joke as she looks out of one of the windows. "His delicate porcelain skin isn't used to the sunlight."

This gets a real laugh from Romanda, and for the first time in a long time the lines by her eyes are causes by joy as opposed to worry. "You're right." She concedes. "A few more moments couldn't hurt his complexion, though."

Another joke is on the tip of her tongue, something about how if he gets too tan he'll turn orange during his transitions to the Hulk. But that, along with the breakaway from panic, is lost when the door to the door slides to reveal a rumpled looking Bruce barreling into the lab. The man must have ran from where he fell asleep because his hair has been pushed back from the wind and his chest is heaving. His neck and cheeks are tinted maroon from his exposure to the sun and his clothes are wrinkled. Green eyes flash around the room from Shuri to Vision to Ramonda and back before he seems to catch his breath. The sight would be laughable, if not for the rather frantic look to him.

"We have a, uh, situation." In the distance, a faint, high pitched buzz can be heard. Any bit of humor left in the room fades with his words. "I swear, I didn't touch anything."

**_The Andromeda Galaxy  
_**_2023_

Blue. Everything is tinted blue. Teal? It might be closer to teal. It's hard to remember a time when it wasn't like this, Tony feels like he's been suspended in one day for years. The monitors shut down too long ago back to really track the day or year anymore.

"We really did it this time, Pep." Across from him, the Iron Man helmet remains unresponsive. He blinks at it, as if expecting a response. "You know what I miss the most?" Again, nothing. "Central heating. I'd sell my liver for a hand warmer at this point."

Across the room, the door shifts. The automatic systems shut down years ago, so the metal screeches in protest when it's manually opened. It's certainly not a welcome noise, but he's more or less gotten used to it. Without knocking or otherwise announcing herself, Nebula proceeds to yank the door open and scowl at it as if it went out if its way to block her path. After a brief moment of consideration, she narrows the look on him.

The first time she had happened upon him, it was a mistake. Nebula had been coming to retrieve him to attempt one of many - seven, overall, with the last being successful - mendings to his chest wound. She was equal parts bewildered and amused. He was mostly horrified, a little embarrassed over being caught making recordings for people who would likely never hear them.

"Still talking to yourself?" She snipes as she approaches, maneuvering around the table to bend at the waist and come face fo face with his helmet. She peers into the eyes, unbothered by the blue light directed into her vision. "How does this inferior bundle of spare parts still function?"

"I've been using the leftover Gix cores and Kree pellets as a short term power source." Tony explains easily as she continues her staring contest with an inanimate object. "I'm not talking to myself, either. I'm keeping a record. It's smart."

Instead of praising him, Nebula stands and rolls her shoulders as she points out, "It's narcissistic."

"_You're_ calling _me_ a narcissist?" He snorts. "When someone finds this and wants to know what happened for historical purposes, I'm telling them to leave you behind."

For the first time, there's something new in the furrow of Nebula's brow and the tight set of her jaw. He can't place it until she looks away and steps almost past him, stopping shoulder-to-shoulder facing the opposite direction to look out of the wide observatory window behind him. Pity. Sympathy. The fact that she's feeling empathetic should warm his heart and endear him to her. She doesn't seem to care for or like anything, so the gesture is either fueled by fondness or respect.

All it does it make his cheeks burn and his chest hollow. Entertaining his delusions of rescue must be in the past, now. Tony is a little surprised she's done it for this long, but that's no comfort to him.

"I didn't know we had any leftover parts." Nebula remarks finally.

He shrugs, gaze still pinned to the mask recording their conversation. "What I didn't burn out trying to get up enough power for a jump. Only enough for a few minutes at a time."

She nods, a nonverbal _that's_ _good_ and glances over her shoulder as if to ensure it really is capturing what she's about to say. "One month."

"What?" Tony tilts his head to look up at her.

"That is roughly what we have left to sustain you physically if we continue at our current rate." Nebula pauses, still looking at the stars as opposed to him. "Oxygen is... trickier."

Processing that, Tony hums noncommittally. "Okay."

"The repair you did on the convertor has allowed it to operate at minimal levels but we are going to lose all power." Her tone is even, factual. Disconnected. "Our transfer of the power cores is not going to hold."

Again, Tony gives a hum of acknowledgement. He looks at his hands, at the rigid scars across his palm from trying to manhandle an active power core while Nebula stuck her metal hand into the sparking mess of machinery to manually connect it. He knows her flesh hand matches his from their haste to get everything situated. It's one of the good memories from their disasted laden trip. Afterward they had collapsed into separate heaps on the floor, waiting anxiously as the lights flickered and the colors shifted. The Luphomoid had slapped him on the back with her good hand and given him a backhanded comment on how _being_ _a_ _terran_ _doesn't_ _make_ _you_ _totally_ _brainless_.

"You hear that?" Tony inputs eventually, voice biting and eyes tired as he turns them to the reminder of who he was. "We're in the endgame now."

While the scathing callback to Strange and his apparent inability to make use of a magic stone that allows you to view the future is minutely funny for him, Nebula doesn't seem amused. The taller of them gives him a disdainful look. The sigh she lets out makes it seem like his comment has put the weight of the world on her shoulders. As much as she looks like she wants to, she refrains from wrapping her fingers around his shoulders and shaking him until all of his organs clatter around inside his chest cavity. For what it's worth, the dinged helmet doesn't laugh either. Which is fine, anyway. It was more for his individual benefit than theirs as a group.

As the silence engulfs them again, a cold hand finds a home on Tony's shoulder. His alien companion still isn't looking at him, but her lips are shaped into a frown and her shoulders are curves forward. Physical contact is rare for the pair. Even with all the time they've spent sitting around together in silence or not.

He cherishes it, careful not to lean into her touch and pushing off the desire to put his hand over the blue one gently perched on his person. It would scare her off, he's sure. Nebula is already looking a little jittery from the interaction. Her touch is so light she might as well have her appendage hovering over his shirt. The moment lasts longer than he expected, and she doesn't abscond immediately.

"Want to have a blowout?" Tony queries when she glances at her escape route.

Nebula laughs, just a few short seconds where they're nothing more than people enjoying their time while they have it. "At least I will say I did not die or boredom."

If this were an eighties or nineties movie or television ad, he thinks, it would be the perfect time for one of those _record scratch_ \- freeze frame - _that's_ _me_, _Tony_ _Stark_. _You're_ _probably_ _wondering_ how _I_ _got_ _here_...

_**The Andromeda Galaxy**_  
_2018_

Escaping the central spaceport is easy. Tony has to shoot at a small group of disturbingly gold individuals, but most of the conflict in bypassed when Nebula drops a Vrellnexian grenade onto the floor and shoots at it. The resulting explosion of fumes is enough to make him gag even as the boarding door closes and the Luphomoid hauls ass out of the landing bay. She manages to sideswipe a few ships on their way, effectively buying them enough time and distraction to make a decent getaway. The adventure has their blood pumping, hearts racing, brains running on overtime as they try to come down from the high of their theft and rather loud escape.

"That was good." Nebula comments casually once they've both settled, slumping a little in their seats. Her human companion chokes on a laugh, one hand over his face. She gives him a withering look. "What? It was."

Tony point out, "I'm pretty sure everyone in the next galaxy over caught the ruckus we made back there."

"We got what we came for with few casualties." She tests out a shrug, and Tony notes that she's getting better at it. Maybe she's been practicing, staring at her reflection in the brief moments he finds the refuge of sleep. "If no one catches us, it does not matter how loud we are."

The resident terran chooses not to focus on the _few _part of that. He doesn't really need to know how many people - innocent or otherwise - risked stepping in her path and losing their life. At least he can admit she's right. They got what they needed and got out without damage to themselves or their mode of transportation, which is a silver lining in and of itself. It had almost seemed like just the right time for the universe to act aggressively against them again.

Just as they're getting settled in, Nebula navigating the ship and Tony slumped on the floor somewhere behind her fiddling with the remnants of his suit and some of the more familiar technology on board, the ship rattles ominously.

At first it's easily dismissed as cutting corners too close to the orbit of one of the nearby planets, and Nebula corrects the Benatar to make up for it. When the vessel shakes again, this time a little more violently, she pulls up the rear display. Nothing. The vast planes of space are as empty as ever. She's almost ready to dismiss it as a fluke when it happens again, this time enough to jostle both of them and set a bright yellow light flashing. One of the displays flashes, bringing up a side view of the ship with a large tank on the button singled out in orange.

"_Secondary_ _fuel_ _tank_ _impaired_."

As he approaches, Tony can hear his alien companion cursing about _those fuel tanks were just filled _and _reserves _as she flips a few switches and abpruptly swings the ship to do a barrel roll. The maneuver reveals a smaller, darker ship underneath of them equipped with a shocking number of weapons. With a little difficulty from the sudden swinging around of the ship, the genius scrambles to one of the view ports for a better look.

Just across from him, holding up a heavily scarred hand to display his middle finger, is Haze. His features seem even uglier twisted with anger, and Tony has just a moment to contemplate regret for his actions before they're blasted and the impact sends him sprawling on the floor near his blue companion.

Sheepishly, he drops his head to the floor to look up at her. "I thought you guys were friends."

"What did you do?" Nebula snaps, glaring down at him before looking ahead again.

"Uh..." Tony looks from her to the view port and watches the criminal veer in front of them to cut them off. "Nothing?"

"Nothing!" She practically yelps, fist connecting with a button as she nosedives to avoid a collision and shoots off rockets. "What did you _take,_ you meatsack?"

"Nothing!" Tony lies again, but when he cringes he knows she's caught him.

One metal finger comes to the front of his face, pointing and nearly touching his nose. "If we do not die here, I am killing you."

"Yeah," he sighs as he blinks at her. "That's fair."

"Sit." She jabs a finger at one of the seats to her right. "Press the blue button."

While Nebula works to evade their attacker and not have their ship blown to smithereens, Tony hauls himself to his feet and then into one of the chairs, eying the control console in front of him as he straps himself in. The Benatar continues to twist through the void of space and fire off shots, ducking around the smaller and faster ship as they get further off course. The whole thing is a little surreal, like a Star Trek movie. And they would both be wearing red, probably.

Tony presses the blue button cautiously, not entirely convinced it won't eject him and his seat into space, and is excited when a number of colorful rockets head straight toward their assailant. They connect with a disorienting flash of color and he briefly thinks that's the end of the conflict, but the weapons dealer flies his ship straight out of the quickly dispersing cloud and toward them. Seemingly giving up on firing proper weapons, Haze rams his ship right into the side of their own. The impact sends the Benatar spiraling to the side, even as Nebula tries to correct it with a practiced swerve. A well placed shot to the underside is enough to take out the second fuel tank, another connects with their already injured wing and has them careening to the left.

All Tony can make out for a while is the dark stretch of space, broken up by various sizes of rocks as they bounce off of the windows and sides of their ship. Nebula is cursing under her breath as she tries to steer them away from the potential danger, only for a cluster of rock and metal to collide into the front facing port, cracking the reinforced glass and sending them into another flying object. Tony begins to feel like they're in a pinball machine, getting knocked off of space rocks and the vessels of vindictive mutates.

As the Benatar levels out, it's easier to make out what's happening. Out of the left side he can see a planet comprised of blue and purple hues, constantly and quickly shifting. And it's getting closer. Or, more accurately, _they're _getting closer. And so are the dislodged pieces of the Benatar and their not-so-pleasant-early-2000's-throwback.

He can just make out Haze's form behind the tinted glass, expression twisted with anger and frustration. The small black ship veers to the side, clearly making an attempt at moving in their direction. Tony is bracing himself for another hit when the backend of the smaller vessel kicks and the whole thing spins. When he tries again the thrusters seem to sputter and the dark ship is yanked backward again, missing a large group of rocks by a thread.

"We're in orbit of Aakon." Nebula grits out. "The debris could cause us to crash."

"Our new age Myspace friend, too." Tony responds, tipping his chin to one of the view ports where the small black ship can clearly be seen trying to pull out only to be smacked in the side by an asteroid. Nebula gives him a disdainful look. "We have more power than that?"

"Yes." The blue skinned woman hesitates, looking at something on her display. "The main engine is at half capacity, both main fuel tanks are damaged. We don't have the parts or time to repair them. We can't jump like this. If we divert power to the front-facing thrusters we can push ourselves backwards and out."

"Okay..." Tony draws out the 'o' and raises his brows. "So do it."

She grimaces. "We'll use all of the reserves. If it throws out the main engine we won't make it far."

"Do we have any other options?"

Aside from the foreboding _thwump! _of various sized hunks of rock against the outside of the Benatar, it's silent as she considers their options. And then, finally: "No."

"Then we do it."

Fifteen minutes later, the two stranded beings have managed to divert all of their available resources to the front thrusters. They lost Haze somewhere in the mess of debris and rocks a while ago, Tony is willing to bet he compromised power and durability for speed and stealth and he'll be stuck for longer than they are. Even the Benatar, heavier and equipped with more brawn, struggles to dislodge itself from the rocks. Nebula is ranting about how the gravitational pull of the planet - he's sure she called it Aakon - is strong enough that it would probably flatten him if he planted his feet on the ground. It's fascinating, but not something he has the time to really dive into right this moment. Another thing to pin to the board and revisit once he's settled down on his own planet with a nice glass of scotch.

The orange and blue craft stutters and slips once, twice before breaking away from the cluster of rocks and pulling away. The lights flicker and Nebula hastily hits a few buttons until the lights dull down and they're just drifting a safe distance from the purple and blue planet. Relief makes Tony's shoulders sag and Nebula leans forward to bring the cool metal of her hand to her face.

"That was _rocky _for a minute there, huh?" Tony asks, expecting her to scoff or round on him with threats of death in the vacuum of space or dumping him on some currently undecided planet.

What he doesn't expect, and it honest to God shocks him so much he thinks for a moment he's going to crawl out of his skin, is for her to laugh. Her shoulders are shaking roughly and the sound is reminiscent of glass breaking, surprisingly high pitched and sharp. It's the first time she's laughed, aside from the time she said _ha_ as monotonously as possible at his expense, and it's obviously real in how unpracticed it is.

Tony's shock and awe quickly gives way to worry when her shoulders hunch further and her free hand grips the control so hard he's sure he hears it cracking along with her voice. She releases it soon after, raising her hand to indicate for him to wait while she turns away from him and continues to choke and gargle out broken laughs. It goes on long enough that it becomes unsettling, and the man behind Iron Man begins to wonder if she's hysterical. He tries to distract himself or think of something to say to diffuse her abrupt laughing spell, but every time he starts she raises her hand at him until he gives up entirely.

Instead he takes a moment to evaluate the situation, and Nebula. She discarded her clothes weeks ago, opting instead for clothes that he can only assume once belonged to her newly deceased sister. Ganasha? Jampora? Gamira? Bagira? He can't remember. The tank top and loose pants are too casual on her, but they provide him a better look at the cyborg and what holds her together. (And he would be lying, to say he isn't interested.)

He can see where the metal sinks into her skull, and what looks like wires taking root under her skin. The beginnings of where the metal of her arms actually continues to extend all the way through to her shoulder blade, and maybe even further. He had assumed it was more akin to what Barnes' is equipped with, but what she's packing is clearly superior. Her _arm_ is full of disconnected spots that he knows hold a collection of probably super lethal weapons, and considering what he's seen it is probably safe to assume all of the technology surpasses Earth's. The urge to pester her with more questions (and offers to fix the weird twitch of her pinky finger that has been bugging him for months) is undeniable. Incredibly, Tony keeps himself the perfect example of self control and keeps his mouth shut.

But more than that, Tony finds himself focusing on the little things. The tight set of her shoulders, the way the metal bits of her twitch and pinch every time her chest spasms with a laugh or her shoulders hunch too far. It looks a painful, biting where some of the metal is implanted through skin and bone and wires seem to create tight lines underneath the blue. In another situation, where maybe his companion hasn't shown to be prone to violence and under understandable emotion distress, he would go for a closer look. As things are, he tries to wait it out

"Your attempt at humor was _stupid _and _awful _and I despise it." Nebula finally says, catching her breath and breaking his concentration as she stands. "We are now stranded - no fuel, no reserves, limited supplies and oxygen - and you are delusional enough to think this is funny."

Frowning, Tony puts his hands on his knees and watches her prowl back and forth like a predator, tall and lean and full of caged animosity. So instead of focusing on the obvious negatives, he goes for the positives. "We're not dead."

"We're not _dead._" The cyborg spits back, quite literally when she turns to face him. Tony smears the bodily fluid from his cheek with only partially concealed disgust. "You are going to starve, if the oxygen lasts long enough. I am going to suffocate, here, with nothing but your rotting carcass for company. I am going to plaster you piece by piece to the walls as a display of my sheer outrage at the fact that _I _am going to be - "

The start of what was surely going to be a rant for the ages, complete with threats and rebuttals and insults, ends early when the two of them are drenched in darkness. Across from him, Tony can hear Nebula giving a strangled cry of frustration. Sparks light up near her, the product of her metal hand tearing into one of the consoles before the two of them are rendered nearly blind again by the darkness.

"_Power failure." _The voice is low and calm and, Tony notes with mild surprise, speaking English. "_Oxygen conversion and preservation non-functioning. Operating on backup generators. All nonessential processes suspended, oxygen and temperature regulators lowered to thirty-percent, lighting lowered to twenty-percent, artificial gravity lowered to seventy-percent."_

There's a pause, just a second, and the lights flicker. Everything is illuminated by a dull orange, the shattered navigation display flickers with warnings, and on the main command a red light flashes ever few minutes. Otherwise, the ship is eerily still. The sound of some of the vents shifting and clicking as they shut is followed by a low click and the lights on the refrigeration unit as it shuts off.

"_Total operating capacity is at fifty-percent. Long-range distress signal activated. Immediate repairs necessary to ensure necessary living conditions are maintained."_

When nothing more comes, Tony allows himself a moment to breathe and adjust to the change in lighting and the sudden thickness of the air. All of the displays have gone dark, and the only thing lit up on the consoles is the red light. He assumes that's part of the distress signal and can't help but wonder how long it will last before it becomes an unnecessary drain on the battery. Hopefully it's a while. The Guardians - as they call themselves, though he's grown partial Star Command and Space Cadets - must have anticipated a worst case scenario where they were stranded somewhere, right?

Tony tries to assure himself that they can't be that stupid. From what Nebula has told him, they've handled some sticky situations and faced some formidable opponents. Of course, her stories are a lot like the sandwiches Rhodey grew fond of in his uniformed days. Cheap, thin sliced bread with an equally dainty layer of spam and/or potted meat. _Probably more for the texture than taste_, he thinks, _because it tastes worse than the meat-free meatloaf Pepper tested for Thanksgiving and I at least stomached a plate of that for her_. And that thought takes him somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere past the reinforced metal and three-layered glass viewports, and the furiously muttering and pacing phonomaniac currently stomping on and kicking around thick shards of what looks like glass but definitely isn't. Tony knows, because did a thorough examination of it during his exploration of the Benatar. It's too flexible to be glass which makes him wonder about the ease with which Nebula snapped a chunk off) touch sensitive and capable of projecting interactive displays, sensing temperature and performing low-level visual and physical analysis.

He makes a mental note to scoop up some of the shards scattered around the floor, before his thoughts are once again redirected.

Rhodey, animatedly detailing the proper bread-to-questionable-protein ratio and whether or not mustard enhances the taste. (Having tried that as well, Tony can confirm that it does not.) Pepper, furiously trying to explain why board shorts are not appropriate attire for a board meeting even if they are silk. Explaining to Pete why there's kill mode on his suit, and why he shouldn't be trying to disable it. Assisting Vision (and Wanda, before her departure) in taste testing new foods he's learning to prepare. Debating with Thor over how realistic survival shows really are. Reviewing maps and intel and dinner plans with Steve, while Natasha and Clint shut down all of his suggestions. Attending events with Happy and hiding behind plants when he was overwhelmed by the crowds and noise levels.

While Tony's mind falls back down to Earth, and home, and all the stupid simple things he's beginning to wonder about never seeing again, Nebula continues to utilize her colorful vocabulary. She makes a path to all of the meticulously organized storage bins, monologuing to herself all the while. After removing a few select items she moves to the next bin to dig through that one as well. This process continues until she's gone through all of them. In her metal arm is an impressively well balanced stack of machinery and weapons among other devices.

"Well?" Nebula snaps, facing him fully again and forcing him back to reality. He has to blink away the disorientation. "Remove yourself from that seat."

Cautious and slow, mostly to ensure she doesn't decide to end his life prematurely, Tony does as instructed and pops his joints. "Do you think -"

"No. Shut up. Stop making use of that gash in your face, immediately." Shaking off a cringe at the ungodly noise his limbs just made, Nebula uses her free hand to transfer a few items from her pile to his hands. "If you drop that and your sustain another injury I am not assisting you. Your easily impacted body is your own concern."

Without waiting for a response Nebula turns to the hallway and sets a brisk pace. Her footsteps seem louder in the newly introduced dull silence, but maybe she's stomping more than usual. _That's probable,_ Tony thinks. _Being stranded in space could make anyone a little more irritable than usual_. So he just follows her, through doorways and further down that he's been allowed to adventure before. He could never convince her to give him to codes to these doors, past the areas for general usage. The further they go, the more his curiosity spikes. There are control panels on the wall, sloppily labeled and paired with notes in different handwriting.

The neater ones are short, simple, informative. _Heating and cooling - temperature must remain stable in lower levels. Oxygen convertor - do not disable. Communications routers - do not remove from long rang. _There are some that look like chicken scratch, tilted and sloppy and filled with scratch marks. _If you turn the heat down my balls will freeze to my seat. Gravity levels - stop changing it while I'm sleeping ROCKET. You're NOT funny. _Some are quick, abbreviated, and look a lot like a toddler who is still learning. _dont care abt stupid snd syst. y do we need xtrior lghtng, off unless emgcy._ The rest are a mixture of thick block letters and a language he doesn't recognize, close together and pasted side by side like they were in the midst of a passive aggressive argument.

The rest are illegible, possibly due to the writer's haste or mood, or maybe just a lack of decent penmanship overall.

Other than that, the corridor is empty. The door at the end is thicker than the others on the ship and seems to have some kind of rubberized seal. Tony tries to be patient and keep his mouth shut, both to avoid maiming and to appease Nebula. He _really _tries. But standing there while she fiddles with knobs and codes and tries to pretend he doesn't exist makes him antsy. It starts with him rocking on his heels. Then it escalated to bouncing on his feet. Which, inevitably, turns into him shuffling his feet and shifting the items deposited into his grip earlier. His internal struggle, of course, doesn't go unnoticed.

As soon at the door opens, Nebula steps inside and crouches to discard all of her items before whirling around to face him."_What?_"

"What're we doing?" The words come out in a rush of breath so fast that they aren't even coherent, judging by the impatient look he receives in response. "What are we doing?"

"_We_." Nebula scoffs, before accusingly shoving a finger in his direction. "_You _are the reason we are being delayed by our trip down here."

"Okay..." Tony maneuvers around her in the tight space to scurry through the doorway to reunite his meager handful of supplies with hers. When he turns to face her she's already in close quarters, large dark eyes drilling through his very _soul _Jesus Christ he has no idea how she can go from making as much noise as Monty Hall to creeping around like Larry Page. "What am _I_ doing down here?"

Giving him just enough space to breathe, the taller alien brings herself down to his height. For someone lacking in a few distinct features, her face is very expressive. For example: right now, Tony can tell that she wants to grab him by his skull and squeeze until he pops like a balloon. "_You _got us into this. _You _are going to be part of fixing it."

"I can definitely see how I might be _partially _at fault here," Tony admits, refusing to be the one to break away first. "But consider this, Doctor Manhattan." He points to himself. "I don't know if you forgot a key point here, but I'm from Earth. Little behind technologically, I guess, but we're trying. That -" this time he points to the large and very alien layers of machine to their right. "- is sure as shit not. And okay, not to toot my own horn or anything, I might be a certified genius, but it'd be pretty damn counterproductive if I blew us up."

Nebula pauses, considering him and giving a brief once over before taking a step back. "I am not terran and have a much higher capacity for intelligence and wider base of knowledge, _certified Earth genius_." She spits the last of it, cutting her eyes at him spitefully. "With my invaluable array of knowledge and guidance, you will assist me in fixing this."

Tony considers her for a moment, tone determined and posture stiff as she tears something from her arm and adds it to their pile of technology. And then he sets his sights on the impressive mass of machinery and technology on their other side. Some of it is recognizable, variations of things he's seen or used or made himself. Some of it is entirely foreign, pulsing and occasionally shifting and full of things he is kind of excited to learn about. The gears are already turning in his head as he gets a closer look and paces the length of it. Nebula allows him to do as he pleases, simply watching him and waiting.

Upon closer inspection, Tony is surprised to find that these are two _different _machines. One seems to be a power supply, and one he can only assume has something to do with the engines. Together they almost fill the room, with only a small gap to get between them and barely enough room to fit on the opposite end from where they entered. Certainly too cramped for Nebula to squeeze through. He figures this is the main reason she's including him in this bonding activity. His proclivity towards machinery and technology in general probably helps, but she would have to primarily be basing that on his tinkering in their time together. Discounting peculiar cosmic entities, he's pretty sure he's not _quite_ influential enough to be in Murderous Maniac Magazine.

_This is the endgame._

Out of nowhere, the words fly through his mind. It's not the first time, of course. Even before Strange's ominous final words and eventual unfortunate departure, the phrase was slung around. _It's a really stupid fucking endgame_, Tony decides, _but it could be worse_. This is kind of his thing, even if he's going to have to unlearn some things and get reacquainted with some of these parts from a different standpoint.

"My dad always said," Tony starts in bad country accent. "Life is like a shipment of warheads. You never know which one is reactive and going to level the house." When he faces his companion and finds her hovering between dangerously annoyed and laughably confused, he nods. "In other words: what do we _not _touch?"

"You do not touch anything." Nebula sighs. "Not until I am assured you will not blow us into unidentifiable chunks."

"Alright, Gadget, I get it." Tony bounces on the balls of his feet and finds himself incapable of swallowing down his grin. "So where do we _start_?"

_**Exitar  
**__2018_

They're ready. At least, as ready as they're going to get. Loki is aware enough to accept that not everyone is going to be totally prepared for their trip. He can accept that not everyone is wholeheartedly invested in, you know, the potential fate of their _whole civilization _or the universe in general. It's fine. They've made repairs to their getaway vehicle, loaded up with a sufficient amount of supplies through bartering and flattery, managed to get everyone reading the same book if not on the same page. The ship will make it three jumps before it doesn't hold up anymore, and from there it's only a matter of months separating them from Earth.

Not that Loki is particularly excited to be going back there, anyway. If it weren't for the question of _who _is left down there, he would probably go to some lengths to delay their trip. His face isn't exactly going to be a welcome one. No matter what side he's one now, it's no secret that he might have tried to take over their planet. And he might have played a part in bring Thanos to power. And even if there was the influence of the stone over his head and the undeniable allure of control and power, well... It's not really a good look, from their side.

As much as the situation as a whole doesn't bother him, much, it's obviously going to cause a rift when they arrive. The fact of the matter is the Avengers - or whatever it is they're going to call themselves now - are going to see him as hostile and he's not exactly interested in being handled like a rag doll again. It was unpleasant enough the first time, thank you very much. The confrontation is inevitable and sure to be unnecessarily annoying as well as exhausting.

"Do you think Korg is going to hold up through the jump?" Brunnhilde is giving him a rather smarmy grin from the pilot's seat. "I've never seen a Kronan go through it before."

Loki leans back in his seat the inspect the man in question. He's engaged in a game of cards, peeking at an Asgardian's hand as they lean to get a better look at the pot. He doesn't recognize the game, but it's pretty obvious that his kin haven't quite gotten the hang of it. Korg keeps shaking his head at them and whispering very loudly about some rule or another. Eventually, the dark haired man relaxes in his seat and gives the former Valkyrie an indifferent shrug.

"Kronans are durable." He points out eventually. "There's a reason they've been around so long. Of course..." Trailing off and lifting his drinks to his lips to hide a smile, he hums. "I do expect he'll be short a few more pebbles than he already is."

Brunnhilde snorts and goes back to checking... whatever it is she's checking. Loki isn't concerned enough to ask, she knows what she's doing. Another short interaction to add to the list. He's sure he must be growing on her by now, whether she likes it and wants to admit it or not. Their sloppy start might have set him back but this extended stay in space is sure to help him earn some points and fix their footing. From their, it's just a matter of placating smiles and fancy words and he'll be on track with the rest of the lot. Everything is falling into place.

Really, this couldn't have gone better if he had planned it.

Create a diversion to save a decent number of innocent people and one physical powerhouse or two, get everyone to safety, commandeer a ship, give a meaningful speech, start gaining the trust of the survivors. It's like someone _wrote _this specifically for him. A redemption arc fit for a play. Every theatrical bone in Loki's body (which is, probably, every bone) is alive with purpose. It's a shame his parents will only be able to set their sights on him from the grave, but he supposes every story has to have its fair share of tragedy to really hit home.

"Hold on to your stomachs, lightweights." Off to his side, Brunnhilde has a wide grin set on her features and the light of excitement in her eyes. When she aims that look at him, Loki realizes with mild horror that she is most certainly going to enjoy this. "This is going to be the ride of your lives."

A low _'whirr!' _paired with a _'ch-ck!' _signal everything finally firing up. Without warning, the woman with bistre eyes has them hurtling through the sky. Her excitement at being behind the metaphorical wheel is obvious. Her teeth are flashing through her chin and her cheeks are dusted with color when she deftly maneuvers them through a thin slit in the rocks. They're out of orbit before anyone can even think twice. It's impossible to tell how fast they're going out here, everything seems glued into place. But judging by the hasty way Brunnhilde is flipping switches, it's probably pretty fast.

The wild and exuberant look on her face is beginning to make Loki seriously question his decision to allow her to steer them all through space. She looks like she would send them through a minefield for nothing more than the thrill of it. Of course, the only other viable option was himself. There's too much risk in letting anyone else have control over their over method of moving through the galaxies. And while he'd like to boast about being superior in everything he's tried his hand at - because he typically is, being exceptional is part of being a God - there's no doubt that one of them has more experience here. This one single time he had agreed without argument. Here's to hoping that wasn't one of his few bad decisions.

Blowing out a breath through her nose, the current focus of his thoughts reaches above her head and removes the cover for a green switch. This won't be the first time he's gone through a jump or two, but the look on Brunnhilde's face is still a little offputting. She pushes her curly ponytail over her shoulder and the only warning she gives him before flipping the switch is a raise of her brows.

Everything around him bounces and swishes and bends in ways that aren't realistic. Loki's pretty sure his tongue has grown and he's choking on it, his nostrils burn and his limbs fluctuate in length. When he manages to give a glance to Brunnhilde, her eyes bulge and then retreat into her head and her teeth and mouth seem to grow and shrink as her hair finds a life of its own and dances around her. Distantly, his gaze wavers on the count and he isn't surprised to find they're only at the end of the first jump.

The second has his brain scrambled, has him standing on a battlefield centuries ago with familiar comrades and roars of victory. Every breath is rough and his heart makes a desperate attempt to escape his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade. The air is hot enough that his throat burns and his torso is warm, sweat is rolling down his neck from exertion. The humidity has everyone's hair frizzy, clothes sticky.

A heavy clap on his shoulder. A flash of dark hair. _We did well today, my friends. _Heavy red curls paired with the song of an artfully forged weapon as it takes its last swings through the air before a well earned rest. _I would choose no others to fight alongside. _Red fabric and a belly deep laugh. _Good game, brother. But I've beaten you by seven this light. _Long strides, a green cape skirting matching boots. _Are we in agreement that we take the front somewhere with a more bearable climate next time?_

Whatever takes hold of him releases him when they start the third jump. Loki tells himself he isn't going to vomit. He's going to save face, even with the smell of burning hair and the feel of cold sludge coating his throat and sloshing around in his stomach. He's endured worse. This is nothing.

Just as quickly as it startled, the rattling throughout the ship stops. And so does the nausea. Relief takes its place for a beat, maybe two, and then Loki blinks and finds himself curved over the seat heaving. Somewhere behind him, a cracking laugh starts up. He tries to give Brunnhilde a dirty gesture for her input, and she gives him a hard clap on the back which only makes him gag again.

**_The Andromeda Galaxy  
_**_2018_

Oh yeah, she _definitely _enjoyed that.

Watching Loki, God of Mischief, King of Thieves, Master Ballbreaker, bend over dispel not only the contents of his stomach but also most of his dignity is worth the wobbliness of her limbs and the faint throb at her temples. It's probably the best part of their journey so far. It's probably going to be her main talking point when they manage to reconnect with Thor and Bruce. Brunnhilde has no doubt they'll enjoy the story as much as she'll enjoy retelling it a thousand times over.

It was worth her vision splitting during the first jump, and her glimpses at old faces during the second, and the out of body experience she got to enjoy during the third. She's willing to bet there won't be many chances at catching him like this in her future. For as much of an ass as he's made himself out to be, he's got a phenomenal track record in smiling pretty and saving some amount of his respect and title.

"Everyone in one piece?" She calls out when her chortling dies down, standing to get a view of the rest of their companions. There are a few messes, as to be expected, but aside form a few grumbled complaints there are no disruptions. "Korg?"

Blinking up at her, the Kronan aims a thumbs up her way. "All good." Right on cue, a couple pieces dislodge from his shoulder to join a growing pile on the floor. He looks down at the rocks and them up to her again, not breaking his stride. And then, louder to reassure everyone: "No worries, everyone! That's normal!"

Everyone seems to take this moment to collect themselves. A few of them, already designated to clean up duty, are moving around with water and reusable wipes. Both for cleaning the floor and for those of them that couldn't contain themselves. Brunnhilde is pretty pleased to see it's better than expected. There are usually a lot more hurlers on their first time, and with some of the Sakaaran rebels it was hard to know how much their bodies can withstand. The Asgardians she knows from experience can handle plenty more than three jumps. Aside from a few non-critical side effects, they'll be fine.

With some of the others, it's hard to say. Just because they aren't currently showing any bad signs, there's no way of knowing their heads weren't a little scrambled. The body can handle a lot, and can adapt the more you expose yourself to the stressors, but three jumps back to back on their first time could always be problematic.

Settled near one corner Biff has curled himself into a large ball, shifting his shoulders as if to get something off. Tasba is fairing surprisingly well. She's making rounds to dispose of the bodily waste and make sure none of the slumped bodies are unconscious. Miek is chittering loudly at anyone who approaches, swiftly discouraging anyone from directing their attention towards him. There are one or two Asgardians holding their stomachs or limbs, as well.

"Are you done having your fun yet?" Green eyes meet brown, one set full of distaste and the other mirth.

"Oh no, not nearly." Brunnhilde gifts him with her most predatory look as he rights himself and brushes her off. "I'd say we're just getting started."

"What a _joy._" He drawls, rubbing at his eyes. Whatever he experienced, she's pleased to see it made an impact. "I can already see just how this trip will bring us together."

Barking out a laugh, the fit woman returns to her seat. "That's the spirit, _ormr. _You made your bed..."

She trails off, confident that he knows the saying and where she's going with it. Loki doesn't give her a sharp or witty comeback, though. When she looks over he's looking out of the port, a thousand miles away. She won't ask, because she _doesn't_ care. And he won't tell, she's sure. If it were something he felt benefited him to share, he would have started on it already. Something in his expression shifts, sharp and calculating, and Brunnhilde is pretty sure she doesn't really want to know what goes on inside his head anyway. Unfortunately for her, Loki decides now is the time to start sharing.

"There are going to be sacrifices." That cool gaze is back on her. "This will likely be a one-way trip."

Brunnhilde gives him a dirty look. "Sacrifices."

"_Necessary_ sacrifices." He says, with so little care that she wonders if he meant to say it at all. "Please, don't tell me you were too naive to consider that."

There's no point in responding, or feeding into his mental deliberation over who they should be willing to give up, so Brunnhilde doesn't. She's tries to tune out his quiet ramblings, to put away the thought of the inevitable until they're closer to when those decisions will need to be made. But part of her aches for Sakaar and her reputation there, the almost limitless supply of booze and absence of responsibility. Dying for what could be a lost cause when she could have been sailing smoothly along in her tucked away corner of the universe. In the end, Brunnhilde reasons with herself that she's put her life in danger for less.

"Hell," Brunnhilde interrupts, more for herself than him. "It's not like we have anything better to do, now."

Loki hums his agreement, and his line of sight drifts back to their gaggle of survivors. She swears she sees a genuinely amused smile trying to twist its way onto his features, but he's turning his head back to the port before she can really capture the image. "Even I can't argue that."


	9. Subsisting

**_Upstate New York  
_**_2019_

Steve is uncomfortable. Or, something close to it. The word doesn't quite seem to fit the situation, or the way his chest has tightened and his muscles are tensed. Two and a half months later - putting them nearly nine months into the scrambled mess of the life they're facing - and the feeling hasn't budged an inch. He wishes it would. Every day he finds himself in this same spot, standing with his ass leaned against Tony's favored workbench. Sometimes for hours, until he forgets where he is and expects the other man to strut in already on some tangent. Occasionally he arrives to find Happy or Rocket already drowning the world out with the aforementioned billionaire's music, reminding each of them of what they've lost.

Sometimes he can only bear to occupy the space for a number of minutes, until the air feels thick in his lungs and his resolve crumbles. Sometimes he runs. It's weak, he knows, but there are ghosts in every corner of the lab.

Today, he's been there for so long that he's sure they've missed lunch. That one thought is enough that his mind pulls violently back to Pepper bringing them dinner, in the late nights where Tony was developing them all new equipment and enrapturing him with theories of their future and a time where the Avengers would no longer be necessary. Looking around now, Steve is sure this isn't what he had in mind. They've been rendered useless in the aftermath of their loss, stumbling over and around the same plans and ideas and schemes and their search for anyone who could potentially provide an assist.

Across the room, Rocket lets out an unsatisfied snarl and scatters a stack of papers off of the tabletop and to the floor. He proceeds to throw a fit, cursing and muttering rapidly to himself while his fur bristles and his tail goes straight. The outburst is a welcome distraction. Steve waits until the raccoon has calmed and faces him to raise both brows, more than aware that he's going to get an at length explanation of the other's ire whether he indicates he's invested in it or not.

"This Flerken shit doesn't even make half a ceager of sense!" His claws click as he paces, adjusting his vest in his agitation. "What ain't entirely incoherent wouldn't even look realistic if I were suffering from freeze stroke!"

Steve understands most of that, by now. A Flerken is some alien creature of unknown power and origin, that no one wants to closely encounter to properly document. A ceager is some sort of currency, common in lower tier dwellings. Freeze stroke is... Well, okay, he's pretty sure Rocket is just mixing up sayings with that one. He nods, feigning understanding, and leans a little more heavily on the workbench.

"Tony had a thing for making himself impossible to understand." Steve comments offhandedly, gaze falling to the papers strewn around them. "He was pretty good at it, if you hadn't noticed."

Sneering at him, the smaller mammal drops from his elevated spot to the floor. He picks through the papers before coming up with one that is heavily stained with what looks to be coffee, but upon closer inspection the enhanced human is pretty sure it's just soy sauce. It looks old, certainly not in Tony's handwriting. The writing is more looped and fluid, but slanted in the same manner as the man's own scratch and just as uneven in sizing and spacing. The angles make it hard to read, but simpler times full of mission reports and debriefing with the one and only Stark Supreme give him an advantage here.

"Look." Rocket thrusts the paper toward the blond, who takes it between long gentle fingers and takes his time examining it up close. "This is some... some... terran movie garbage. Footloose ."

The raccoon looks so pleased with himself at the correct naming of the movie that Steve can't bring himself to point out the obvious differences in play. Or the fact that Footloose is rather commonly considered decent. The scribbles across the paper are paired with a rough sketch of a large machine, as well as some tiny orbs? Tubes? The original owner of the paper certainly wasn't an artist. Steve can just make out something about Pyns? And microscopic levels of life. Something about travel through... He isn't sure. The handwriting runs into itself so badly it looks like the owner was drifting off while detailing.

The more he squints at the page, the more distorted it seems. Maybe his eyes have crossed. Steve blinks comically in an attempt to right himself, dutifully ignoring the roll of the eyes Rocket gives him. There's something familiar in the long limbs of the capital 'L' and the exaggerated curves of the '?' at the end of a few unanswered queries. Something that picks at the edges of his brain and tickles old chunks of memory, whispering voices that hardly seem familiar.

"Okay, I get it, you're uneducated." Rocket snips at him after a while, hopping up to snatch the paper from his grip carelessly. It makes the man's heart ache. "Just starin' at it like your optical processor is malfunctionin'."

He said they couldn't get through a test run without something malfunctioning . The words ring through his mind with the distant lilt Tony always had when he was rambling thoughtlessly while he worked. Too dangerous and unreliable and unrealistic for continued research and trials.

"Howard rejected the project." Steve finds himself blurting unconsciously, and he feels stupid with the realization the swooping letters and tall punctuation are familiar with good reason. He hasn't thought about his time with the older Stark in years, so long he struggles to accurately remember his voice.

Rocket turns to face him again, paper hanging precariously from his claws. "Who the hell is Howard?"

"He was -" A genius in their time, kind of an asshole, a good friend, the man who searched for him for years, who shaped technology today, the man who helped make him Captain America, who helped created S.H.I.E.L.D. None of those things seem like an appropriate response. "- Tony's father."

"That helps us how?" The furry miscreant sighs at him.

Steve juts a finger toward the paper. "He wrote that. In the early 70's."

"Okay." Rocket extends the first vowel, reminiscent of the original resident of this lab. "That supposed t' mean somethin' to me?"

"Right." Steve's mind is still trying to catch up, caught between side-by-sides of two dark haired, intense eyed men years apart and incredibly different and similar in strides. "He was working with a physicist, some particles to manipulate mass?" It comes out sounding unsure, like a question, because this really just isn't his area of expertise. "There are sketches of containers and machines."

"I know, my eyes still work."

"It's not like I can make sense of all of it, either ."

"Well damn, pretty boy." Rocket has already returned to his papers and diagrams, comparing them to the small scale models Tony must have assembled before everything. "I would never have guessed."

"Look -"

Steve is cut off when he catches sight of the blueprint underneath some of the documents. It's only a small corner exposed, but he can clearly make out _PDS - 5_, followed by what look like rough measurements and scales for size. Just behind his own roaming internal wondering about Tony and Howard and how the Starks have twined themselves into the years of his life, he struggles to latch onto a memory. It seems like forever ago, now.

A nagging snippet of time highlighted in sympathetic greys with splashes of yellow, moments where they seemed to be on the right track. Late nights with dark liquor and piss yellow Asgardian ale. Partially intoxicated tangents on grey matter particles, and conductors, and Badassium and ion cores. Magnetically confined plasma and anti-magnets. Retelling old stories with new details, new meanings. Quick jokes and sloppy laughter, wheels turning and chairs spinning. Diagrams and haphazardly slapped together holographic powerpoint presentations.

What feels like a galaxy away, Rocket is still ranting. Gruff and irritated, claws tapping against metal echoing off of the walls. Tail flicking and rotating so quickly that multicolored fur is left amongst the abandoned papers. The raccoon's words move sharply through Steve's ears, only recognizable in clipped vowels and short sentences. The words themselves are lost somewhere between _a suit of armor around the Earth _and _if we don't do this it will be done to us._

On their own, his feet take him to the other workbench. _Our very strength incites challenge. _One step at a time. _Challenge breeds conflict._ Left. _And conflict breeds catastrophe. _Right. _Oversight is not an idea that can be dismissed out of hand. _Left.

Using more care than his companion has in their time at the Avengers Facility, Steve curls his fingers around papers and documents and schematics, stacking them off to the side. They should sort it, he's sure, but that's a task for another time. For now he just moves it all aside. A lopsided tower of information that hasn't been of any use to them. And underneath, an unfinished blueprint full of red inked notations and scratched out bits of text and numbers. The thickly outlined drawings and diagrams showcase a number of varied metal plates and power sources and outputs.

Steve stretches the paper out, using a couple pens laying about to keep the sides weighed down. Not that he can make sense of much of the contents regardless. But some of it is, quite literally spelled out for him. Underneath the _PDS - 5 _is _Planetary Defense System Shield. _And then to the lefthand side, a number of scrawled and marked through statements.

_Attempt 1: g.m. particles w/ plasma as deflectors. g.m. particles react badly with polarized plasma, stabilizer needed. future trials must account for intrinsic spin and magnetic moment.  
Attempt 2:_ _use of antimagnets, metamaterials to replace plasma. reverse ions in power cells to hold positions. too much effect on magnetic fields, m.m. causing disruptions. discharge = kablooey w/ reversed ions. do not attempt w/ plasma, increased temperatures and materials combined could cause uncontrollable ignition.  
Attempt 3: harness contained plasma windows, g.m. particles, superconducting wire, electromagnetic pulses, upgraded repulsors fitted for wide range. repulsors require too much energy, charging impossible in space, increase size of plasma windows to ensure coverage._  
_Attempt 4: increase g.m. particle distribution, reintroduce metamaterials, test to replace ions. adjust outputs to increase reaction areas. ion power cells the only ones compatible and stable with g.m. particles and plasma. assisting with containment of gas membranes._ _metamaterials no-go. new source for additional refraction and cloaking necessary.  
Attempt 5: place more power cells, reduce superconducting wire to prevent friction in rotation and divergence from course. reengineered repulsors to maintain distance in orbit. attempt to introduce vibranium in small scale reactor chains, channel and sto_

It cuts off there. The sizing scale on the right that whatever simulations he did were nowhere near the size necessary to even begin to pull this off. Just below the measurements are clearly frustrated comments, littered with vague insults and curses, alluding to the inability to sustain some of these safely in the long term without different power sources or constant maintenance. Neither was really an option.

"So he was a total bucket-case, huh?" Rocket startles him when he appears, perched on the edge of the table. Steve had forgotten about him, forgotten where he was. When he was.

"Basket-case."

"Huh?"

"Basket-case, not bucket-case." When he looks up, Rocket is still frowning in confusion. "The saying, you're mixing it up."

Curling his lip, the smaller of the two shakes his head. "Does it matter?" He asks and Steve supposes it doesn't. "You understood what I was sayin', ain't _my _fault you Earthlings have too many fucked up turns of phrase to keep track of."

Steve expects that to be the end of it, when he shrugs to concede the point. But Rocket doesn't move from just beside him, head cocked to one side as he looks over the P.D.S. again. He does eventually pace to the other end of the paper to get down and squint for a better look at some unidentified and unfinalized version of the contraption. The gears turning in his head are nearly audible when he balances a paw on the paper to stretch and compare the notes to the figures listed above. A moment, maybe two, and then he's lurching back up to his full height with a startled noise.

"Could've been on to something." Rocket says suddenly, so quickly that the terran beside him nearly misses it entirely. Small, furry digits snatch up a pen and he furiously starts to add his own notes in dark blue, abstract lines of words and numbers that could have no meaning at all to anyone aside from himself. "Just..."

The blue ink settles beside black and red corrections, short thick writing neighboring thin slanted letters. An unfamiliar addition. It's good, it's necessary, but it feels wrong. Steve has to step away, retreat. He falls back to his original spot, finds himself dropping into a wheeled seat that belongs to someone else. The world seems to have shrunk in the months they've had in this new life, and now this room does the same.

_Attempt 5: place more power cells, reduce superconducting wire to prevent friction in rotation and divergence from course. reengineered repulsors to maintain distance in orbit. attempt to introduce vibranium in small scale reactor chains, channel and sto __svrn cndtrs + pls wre, tssrct_

_**Tokyo, Japan  
**__2019_

There are still days where Natasha wakes up and lays with her eyes closed, a thousand miles away, and imagines herself groggily navigating the Avengers Facility to find the common room for coffee.

Clint, already seated with his ass on the counter and a coffee with a dash of creamer for her. Steve, and usually Sam, debating across the table of their breakfast about baseball. Bruce and Tony on the couch caught in a moment of normalcy, commenting on whatever they've put on the television. Pepper's voice coming from Tony's phone, pleading for him to focus and stop putting her on speakerphone to enjoy cinema with them. Rhodey begging for them to just, _please, for once, let me enjoy the movie, I'm only in town for a week._ Vision hovering over the stove with Wanda at his elbow, schooling him on how to cook a proper meal. Thor, when he chose to drop in, trying to sneak a taste of their concoctions.

But when she opens her eyes, she's in the same place she has been for months.

Greeted by bland grey walls and the distant hum on monitors warming up, Natasha rises. The underground facility is cool, calm, heart-achingly quiet. She dresses with the dull yellow glow of the lights, nothing but the sound of her boots echoing off of the walls when she exits the room she's claimed as her own. The hallways are much the same, empty and quiet, broken only by open doors and the occasional display mounted to the wall.

Being one of the smaller S.H.I.E.L.D. set-ups, this place has never been particularly full of life. It only housed thirty operatives, maybe, in its prime. Following the snap it, along with most of their other hideaways, has been left empty in a way that was never intended. Fury had never left any active stations empty, for surveillance and security purposes. If her were still here, she's sure he'd be grimacing at even the idea. Not that Coulson had been enthused upon their arrival either, but it was expected.

Speaking of her lone comrade, he's already in the control room when she enters. His shoulders are hunched and clothes rumbled, head rotating side to side to ogle a muted video and some paperwork. Judging by the look of him, Natasha is fairly sure he hasn't slept. That might even be the exact spot she left him when she forced herself to vacate the room last night in an effort to rest.

"I was beginning to wonder if I needed to wake you myself." Coulson comments when she seats herself beside him to look over whatever he has. "Have you ever slept past noon before?"

"No." Natasha glances up at him, catches the way his gaze lingers on her unbrushed curls and wrinkled shirt.

"You have now." He informs her, using one hand to turn his monitor enough for her to see.

It says the time is 13:52, which is significantly later than she expected. Natasha frowns at it as if that will make the time change, but the minute only goes up by one and she rubs at her eyes. They're not in a particularly time sensitive situation, at least, so it's nothing to get upset over. It does, however, mean she's missed a check-in Steve had set for 08:00.

"I answered when Captain Rogers called." When she looks up, Coulson is still watching the video on his screen with his hands curled together in his lap. "Nothing to report."

Natasha wants to say she's grateful, but mostly she finds herself bitter.

"You should try to sleep." She finds herself saying, and the older man turns to face her. "Or go get us lunch, if you're going to use up the last of your energy arguing with me about it instead."

Coulson frowns, but when his stomach rumbles in agreement he sighs and pauses the video, using the armrests to push himself from his seat. "Shawarma?"

"Anything sounds good right now." Natasha admits, trying for joking. But her tongue is number as the bitterness invades her tastebuds and throat.

Over the last year, she's tried not to be. She truly has. She's tried to find things to lighten the weight of being left to survive in their new world. She's tried to put her nose to the dirt and focus on digging up something useful. She's tried to pour all of her efforts and time and attention into finding their resident archer. She's tried to forget. She's tried to move on. She's tried to remind herself that it's a process, it's not easy, they've never been here before. She's tried to push past it all.

Nothing has worked so far, and none of those things work in the present. All this time they've been handed, and they can't find a single thing to make progress or change anything.

One year. Twelve months and two weeks. Three hundred and seventy-five days. Nine thousand hours. Five hundred and forty thousand minutes. Thirty-two million four hundred thousand seconds. It's long enough that it feels like a lifetime, passed by so quickly it's as if reality has bent and twisted around them to distort the flow of time as they know it.

As if knowing the spiral her thoughts have taken, a light _'ping!' _comes through the thick wristband on her person computer, paired with a flashing green screen with an O and an X at the bottom. The rectangular display turns green, and reveals a picture of Shuri with a wide grin and bags under her eyes, arm thrown over Bruce's shoulder while he tries to match her smile. They're both wearing traditional Wakandan garb, the former in purples and blues while the latter dons greens and browns.

It was taken a few months ago. When Shuri asked Bruce to be a part of the Wakandan Constitutional Council, or to at least attend their gathering, and the Wakandan Design Group. He had sounded more anxious and uncomfortable than eager, when he called to tell her. Shuffling around and muttering and making noncommittal hums, likely pacing around the lab the newly inaugurated Queen of Wakanda had arranged for him during his prolonged stay near the beginning.

_"Okoye says the T-ay-fa Ngoa don't think it's a good idea." _He had said, and she heard someone correct him in the background, she had thought it sounded like Vision but it was too muffled to tell for sure. _"Taifa Ngao. Tribal elders." _And then, much quieter: _"Only three of the Council survived the snap. They're concerned outside influence during this reformatory period is harmful and, to be honest, I have no idea what I'm doing so -"_

But he had gone. And they hadn't totally hated him. Shuri had thrown him a party, dressed everyone up in complimentary colors and featured Thor's cooking and musical stylings. The younger girl had sent her a file full of photos and videos, gems of joy in a mine full of loss, along with only 'visit soon' and a punching emoji.

Natasha accepts the call, and the wristband clicks as a tiny projector pushes out from the front. From the top pops an orb, which scans the surroundings in an off-white light, then flashes. It drops back in, fitting seamlessly. The projector in the front hums and, from the feet up, a hologram of Shuri stands in front of her.

The colors are muted and she's not entirely opaque, but the bright fuchsia and light grey gear still calls her attention. Her updated gauntlets match, though only one is currently equipped. They're outfitted with short, thick spikes around the wrist and retractable claws of the same bright hue, the rest of the feline adjacent handwear is grey as well. The opposite wrist has three large, heavy metal bracelets. The pink-purple stones embedded in each one match everything else, so it is likely safe to assume her gloves morph from that.

Shuri's feet are bare, nails painted orange, though an anklet with lettered charms hangs from one. Visible from this angle is are two T's, and an S. Around her neck is a familiar tooth shaped necklace, and just below the line of her shorts is a round pouch. The cover is flipped to the side to reveal what looks like a number of small patches in various colors, though Natasha has no idea what they're for.

_"Ah, you're officially awake." _Shuri reaches up to fuss with one of two braided buns as she looks around. _"Nakia and I had bets running on whether you would rise before the sun falls. I won, if you were concerned."_

"Who's to say I wasn't busy?" The older women leans back in her seat, one brow rising. "Or having a party of my own?"

_"You're only jealous that it was too spur of the moment to invite you." _The russet toned girl faces her again with a huff. _"Phil already turned on you, anyway."_

Sighing, Natasha offers a placating smirk. "I should have known he would."

Her holographic companion nods, and fusses around for a moment, moving closer. When she gestures for Natasha to move one of the chairs she complies, and is rewarded with the sound of a chair being maneuvered around on the other end. Her commitment to the setting is astonishing and panders to the silly side of the spy-turned-superhero. It brings her smirk to a soft smile, smooths out the lines she's beginning to accrue around her eyes.

Shuri shakes her gauntlet adorned hand twice, fingers spread, and the metal pieces silently shift and pull apart, sharpened pieces hiding away. As she sits she angles her arm so that they slide into place, taking the opportunity to point at the older woman.

_"What are you going to do about that?" _She asks, and Natasha reaches a hand to her face in confusion. _"No, no, your features are carved by the divine as always. Your hair."_

"My hair?" Natasha draws a blank, hand dropping as she looks down at the blonde around her shoulders. "...You called to talk about my hair?"

_"Well, kind of." _The admission is laughable, but surprising enough to keep her silent. _"I noticed last week, your red is coming back. It's to your ears now. Do you plan to color it?"_

This is such a bizarre topic, despite how obvious and casual it is. The last person to fret over her appearance was Tony. Or Pepper, when she was able to attend events and get ready with her. Maybe even Clint, in the times she looked worse for wear and he inevitably was there for her. She really has to think about it.

Making the drastic leap from deep red to platinum blonde had been an obvious choice when they had to go on the run. She'd worn wigs before, many times for missions and to go incognito or collect information. But that was a hassle long-term, and be unreliable. Unrealistic. So the change, and the chop with it, were necessary but uncomfortable. Steve had reassured her, even joined her and allowed Wanda to do them both at once. He trimmed his head and left his facial hair, and dyed everything a few shades darker. And she had lost her length and pulled the signature color out from the ends to her roots.

"No, I don't think so. We're not wanted, it's not necessary." Natasha shrugs minutely, raising her gaze to the other girl again.

Giving a shrug in response, Shuri looks her over thoroughly again. _"I suppose." _She grins conspiratorially. _"The Bombshell look was good for you, I'm obligated to admit it."_

"It was different, and before you ask: I certainly didn't have more fun as a blonde." She laughs, a short release of breath and endorphins that makes her wonder how long it's been since she really laughed last. "Afterwards, Wanda told me I was only going to attract more attention."

Vision had noted that they were all too recognizable to rely on disguising themselves, anyway. They would need to find places where people didn't want to turn them in. In vivid detail, she can remember him promptly transforming himself into regular Joe, smiling, making a joke about irony and noting that Tony would be proud of his advancement in comedy. Steve and Sam's expression, and her own she is entirely aware, were worthy of a photo.

For the life of her, Natasha isn't sure why she brought it up. Everyone else in that memory is gone. Taken by the wind as dust and ash, or brutally disassembled by Thanos. Except her. Except Steve.

_"That tracks." _Shuri says. She laughs, head tipped back and shoulders bouncing. _"It's incredibly hard to believe none of you were recognized during your rebellious stint."_

And suddenly, the sickening grief caught in her lungs is gone. In its place is the music of Shuri's laugh, low and contagious. It mingles with the one bouncing through her head, higher and sharper and out of breath as Wanda (always in on the joke, always eager to partake in fun after getting to experience it) tried to recover. Another, choked with disbelief but boisterous as Sam struggled to convey his approval. Steve bent at the waist with his own coughing guffaws. Vision, steady but unpracticed, joining in good-naturedly.

For the first time, the recollection of years gone by doesn't make her stomach churn. It was a fond moment, and Sam would berate her for not looking back on it and being able to recapture that feeling. That reaction would have been shared by most of them, really.

She's reminded of meeting Sam and his story of his partner. Rare stories from Wanda of her brother, of their lives. The way she spoke with such maturity for her age when she told them of Pietro's desire to live every moment as one to be remembered and to remember each one with nothing but the best, and how she would do the same for him. Of Vision piecing through bits of information and a life of knowledge before his life was his own and questioning what that really meant for any conscious being. Steve, one hand resting on the cryochamber containing what was left of Bucky Barnes.

Natasha had asked if he was going to be okay, doing what they had. His answer had come without hesitation, so quickly it was obvious the topic was one he had been considering for too long.

The first man out of time had reminisced on being brought back from the ice, of adapting to new life, of finding his lifelong cohort and everything that put them on the capture or kill roster. "_I was still Steve Rogers, even if everyone else saw Captain America. Coming back from that, being able to cross the bridge over what could have been -" _and she had regretted asking, sour with guilt as he recounted his struggles "- _it was hard. I wished I could forget it, stop walking through memories in my dreams. When I got to... when I saw Peggy, I knew there was nothing I could do to change it."_

For seconds that felt like years, he had stared past the ice crusted glass at the broken man behind the Winter Soldier. The Ghost. _"Bucky doesn't have that. Even what he does remember goes against everything he knows. He knows being the fist of Hydra. He doesn't have anything, anyone, to remember. I don't know if I could have come back from that. I was lucky to have that."_

Not a day later, they had left Wakanda. Left him. Taking him on the run would only hurt him, cause him distress. And Steve had admitted his company could hinder the recovery process, cross wires, and his aching care for the other man was outweighed by the the desire to do what he knew was best.

So Natasha closes her eyes for a beat, and only that, allows her shoulders to relax at the mirth filled chortles that jump through her skull. They were happy. They would want her to be happy.

_"If you had requested, I could have manufactured something to obscure your features." _She sighs, putting her chin in her hand. _"I was hoping to test run some equipment, but Captain Braveheart made you all leave before I could."_

"We had asked for enough already." Natasha replies, shaking her head. "You had all done enough for us. Steve was already trying to help do the cleaning chores to repay you."

_"I kn-ow!" _Shuri groans, holding out the vowel. _"Staff wouldn't stop talking about it, mama kept asking when I was going to clean up after myself without a daily chart for even task distribution."_ She lowers the pitch of her voice and straightens her posture in an imitation of Ramonda that is terrifyingly accurate._ "He's a phenomenal influence umntwana, you would do well to take after him. Respectful, aware, contributing. Just do not be such a umphathi weengxaki."_

"I see." Natasha hums, even though she does not. "Did he tell you to watch your language during his visit?"

_"Yes!" _The dark skinned girls slumps in her seat again, picking at her nails. _"Mama and T'Challa were practically enamored for it. I swear, they were having a turf war over him." _She sighs, jutting out her upper lip. _"The cute white boys always win everyone over."_

"He's not nearly so straight edge behind closed doors."

Shuri goes uncharacteristically quiet, hyperfocused on chipping away the polish on her nails. _"He was quiet today, during our check-in." _She puts in eventually, finally making eye contact. _"Didn't even clap back when I told him his age was affecting his looks." _A thoughtful look crosses her features. _"I'm not sure he ages physically, though. Sergeant Barnes' serum caused constant cell reproduction and replacement as well as revitalization and showed no signs of aging during his time brought out of cryo..."_

"Yesterday he complained Rocket was particularly aggressive recently." Natasha wonders if this is her real reason for calling, and decides to try Steve herself when they're done. "They're likely on each other's nerves."

_"Perhaps."_ Another pause, a grimace. _"He threw a fit today, throwing papers and screaming up a storm. Thor tried to placate him and he stormed off. I believe his statement was 'you're all useless, and this is a waste of his precious time, but also fuck everyone he's finding a way off of our inferior planet' or at least something along those lines."_

"He's frustrated." Natasha reasons, having grown more fond of the raccoon over their time in contact. He reminds her of Tony. "It's understandable."

_"We're all frustrated." _Shuri snaps, more harsh than the other has ever seen her. Her hands are in tight fists in her lip, lips in a thin frown, brows angled downward as she glares at something out of side off to the side. _"He's the only one talking about giving up."_

"We are." Is her careful agreement. Upsetting the younger girl more with the blunt, coarse words won't help. "Infighting won't make anything easier."

_"He started it!" _The loud outburst is startling, makes Natasha's brows raise and calm expression shift to a silent question. Shuri taps her foot and seems to wait for an argument before looking at her for a response. Abruptly, dark red fills Shuri's cheeks and she looks down. _"I'm sorry. You're right."_

"I understand." Natasha reaches up the rub the crease from the top of the bridge of her nose, and buy time to figure out how to say what she needs to appropriately for the situation. "Everyone is doing their best. He'll blow off some steam and next week, we'll try again. No one is giving up."

_"Yet."_ Shuri intones, looking at her but through her.

"Stop." Holding a hand up, the green eyed woman waits until the younger girl seems even slightly focused on her. "Not everyone is capable of handling this in the same way."

All that earns her is a hum. _"We are at an impasse."_

"Shuri -" She sighs, but the comment is interrupted quickly.

_"Coulson said you've found agent Barton, still in Tokyo?" _The question is answered with a nod, and Shuri hums again. _"That's the first thing anyone has accomplished in over eleven months." _Natasha doesn't have a rebuttal for that, either. _"People are starting to go back to normal."_

"Some people move on." The words feel distant in her mouth. "Not us."

_"Not us." _Shuri concedes.

But she still looks like a scolded toddler, frowning down at her hands and pulling her shoulders down and knees up. Natasha is struck by how young she looks - is. It's easy to forget with her intelligence, position, and the way things are now. At the beginning of the year she turned nineteen, had only been sixteen when her father died. Always looking upbeat, always finding some glass ceiling to shatter with enthusiasm. Yet curling in on herself in the tall chair, the years granted to her by maturity and knowledge and trials fall away. She's nothing more than a kid, keeping up with and sometimes blowing right past all of them.

"After I get Barton," Natasha starts, "I'm - we're - not going straight back to New York."

_"Oh?" _Shuri's attention is drawn by that, heels returning to the floor as she leans forward. _"Doing some sightseeing?"_

"I said we need to find everyone we can. Turns out, he beat me to it." Natasha swivels her chair to the monitor behind her, transferring a few files. "We thought he was playing street sweeper with criminals."

_"Is he not?"_

"Not entirely." She doesn't mention the gruesome scenes he's been leaving behind in his seemingly random vacation destinations. "Take a look."

Shuri does as advised, pulling the files out and taking a few moments to scan them while Natasha waits. A few times she flips back and forth, likely comparing the few who have connections to each other. The number of them is surprising in and of itself, there's no telling how Clint managed to locate any of them. His methods are likely somehow related to the goons he's approached. Only a couple have legitimate given names, most featuring only aliases and secondhand information.

_"Hold on..." _The quiet disbelief in her tone causes pause. _"I know this one."_


	10. Serendipitous

**_Upstate New York_**  
_2019_

"I didn't expect you to have such a strong reaction."

"Well," Rocket is so disgruntled he's faced with an uncharacteristic loss for words. "I am!"

The blonde, excessively tall human is frowning at him. "I appreciate your concern." Steve's lips twitch at the corner, and his smaller companion scowls at the restrained amusement. "But it's hardly much of a change."

"It's horrifying."

"This is actually what everyone is used to."

"It's not what _I'm _used to." The smaller of them sputters, gesturing vaguely. "Can you take it back?"

"Not exactly how it works."

"Make it work!"

At that, Steve actually does laugh. A short, quiet noise. But a laugh, surely. It's a rare sound these days, especially at the Avengers compound. The few of them constantly occupying the space don't often indulge the impulse. So this moment, fourteen months into life as they're beginning to know it, doesn't go unappreciated for either of them. The man raises hand to rub at his newly bare jawline as Rocket considers it. Introspection was never his bag. These days, he has too much time for it.

He's under the impression it's the first time the common area, formerly occupied by a sharp edged makeshift family as it was, has been filled by the sound in a long time. Their shared stay over such a long span of time has allowed for plenty of stories passed both ways. In the start Rocket had adamantly avoided anything of the sort. Determined to keep his distance, his world, separate from this one. Eventually he found himself talking while he worked, exchanging brief callbacks to events his companion was unaware of and vice versa. Occasionally putting in little details and brief recollections.

Rocket has learned that Steve is older than his physical appearance implies. His life has spanned decades, some experienced and others missed. The man with the metal arm on the battlefield was Bucky, he used to be a boxer, and their histories are strung together like a web. The Avengers resided here once, and before that in the city, until the Accords. (Though he isn't exactly sure what _that _means, anyway.) His favorite food is apple pie, but soup is a close second. He can't cook to save his life. The other human heroes were his family, the same way the Guardians were to him. And he learns, through the tight set of his shoulders and stiff lines of his face and the way his body sags when he enters the lab, that he feels every wound as if it was only just opened.

Just now, he's learned that the scruff overtaking Steve's facial plane isn't the norm for him. Which explains the joking remarks spared between him and Thor, actually, and the taunts of furry rodents taking up residence on his features from Natasha. It's a peculiar change, regardless of it not being that grand. He looks mostly the same, Rocket decides. Just more tired. As if time might be trying to reach him, finally. The lack of darkened hair blanketing his face brings more attention to the heavy circles under his eyes, and the sharpness of his jaw and tightness of his lips.

Like this, Rocket can picture him the way Happy once described him. As a soldier, a hero, fit for medals across his breast and a uniform paired with a structured hat. It would suit him more than the multicolored suits he's been pictured in.

That's a time he hasn't heard much of. Stories granted only in passing, and never from the subject himself. Having never been one to take an interest in the past, or base much off of it, he never asks. It's only fair, he thinks. Aside from a bit of minutely horrified laughter and prods of how they shouldn't be surprised, no one had put any weight in his past either. Never tried to peel away at the how or why to any of it. _Look at that, Cap', he's a fugitive too. _Rocket is never going to come out with it, but he had appreciated it. _You, committing a crime? I never would have guessed._

"It'll grow back." Steve reassures him, settling in the chair perpendicular to the couch the furry mammal has seated himself on.

"Will you keep it?"

"Probably not." He admits.

Nearly spitting in his disgust, Rocket shakes his head. "You look _squishy._"

Doing a double-take, Steve reaches up again to feel at his face. "I'm not squishy."

"You are squishy." Baring his teeth, he barks a laugh. "All terrans are squishy."

"FRIDAY -"

"- yeah, _FRIDAY, _tell him how squishy -"

"- am I -"

"- getting out of shape? Losing your figure? Mistress of Time letting -"

"- squishy?"

"By standards on Earth, you are most certainly not squishy, Captain Rogers." FRIDAY lends her support to Steve. Unsurprising, but Rocket is borderline offended anyway. "However, our limited knowledge of life outside of Earth does not provide me with adequate references to compare with extraterrestrial lifeforms."

"Ha!"

Rocket is in the first stages of celebrating in excess. Tail curling in delight, ears rotating forward slightly, nose raising. His grin goes wide, displaying sharp teeth, and a single paw raises pointed at the human. It's close enough to a win. As offputting as the disembodied, accented voice can be to this day, he can appreciate a win when he gets one.

The celebration is interrupted before it can even truly begin. Rocket notices the arm of the couch trembling underneath his form, first, and then the coffee table in front of them jittering. The glass globe curved around the light above them starts to vibrate, emitting a sharp '_clink!'_ every few seconds. It lasts for not even a minute, barely thirty seconds, and is brought to a close by one last solid, considerably more noticeably, jump to their surroundings and a dull '_whop!' _that momentarily deafens him. Inside his mouth his teeth still feel like they're rattling, the sensation almost causing his gums to go numb. An earthquake?

When he looks up, Steve is already standing. He's a few feet away now, closer to the door. Perhaps his enhanced senses caught it first? He's honestly not sure when the human moved, or how he moved quickly enough to avoid his notice. Rocket scurries across the couch on all fours in his direction, claws catching and pulling at the fabric at he goes. The light pricking noise has the man glancing back at him, expression suddenly all Captain America and at attention.

"An unidentified object is approaching the compound." FRIDAY puts in. "We are about to have company."

"A little belated, but okay." Rocket scoffs.

Rocket could swear FRIDAY sighs, if that's even possible. "The speed at which it is moving is rivaled only by Pietro Maximoff. The distance from which it approached delayed my ability to properly track and detect it."

"Who is that?" He asks, but Steve is already taking long strides to the door and away. Claws sliding across the floor, he makes a break to catch up.

"FRIDAY, prepare Home Alone Protocol."

"Understood, Captain Rogers."

Again, Rocket tries to get a word in. "What is that?"

"Notify Happy immediately. Put the levels he and Doctor Selvig are currently on on lockdown."

"Certainly." A pause, and then FRIDAY chimes in again from nowhere and everywhere all at once. "The Feather Coat has been triggered."

"The _what?_"

Equal parts confused and frustrated, Rocket finds himself running straight into one thick, sturdy leg. His nose throbs and he wobbles backward, one paw coming up to cradle the tender space on his face. What kind of idiot stops running in the middle of a crisis? And doesn't even warn the person behind them? This isn't a highway, or an appropriate situation for a brake check at all. He's more than a little miffed. Stepping around the long walking appendages blocking his path, Rocket snaps his jaws and opens his mouth. He's gearing up to give the human a piece of his mind and tell him exactly what kind of bastard does those things, already mentally mapping out lines of curses and admonishments.

Unfortunately, all of his thought out insults and scolding words disappear. _Just when I was starting to joke myself into even fuckin' considering you were capable _turns very quickly into _that's unexpected and where can I get what she's having? _Rocket is left with his jaw hanging open, arms raised with his paws open in an abandoned gesture that would have indicated to the area around them, totally stuffed full of Steve's assholery. Probably accompanied by a slick remark on how he's conscious enough to form coherent sentences, and he should.

The gesticulation would have fallen short anyway with his, in comparison to the star studded man, short range. Making an exaggeratedly huge point can miss the mark if your stature doesn't match up. Of course he could, and would most definitely, have leveled the field a little with his raised voice and quick prattle. Instead, it falls short in the face of a new addition to their party. A glowing addition.

As in _literally _glowing.

Rocket is immediately struck with the thought that she might be radioactive. Or maybe on fire. Is the Feather Coat alluding to how humans roast their avian creatures? There is abso-fucking-lutely no chance she's naturally lit up like the Kyln. She's practically a blur of harsh gold and electric blue hues as it dissipates to allow them a look at the blue, red, and gold suit she's donning. A square jaw and strong nose, loose dirty blonde curls, features set heavy like stone, hazel eyes with dark lashes set beneath brows a couple shades darker than her hair. Currently glaring at them with one eyebrow cocked. A question? A warning? It's hard to tell.

"Who is _that?_" Rocket asks, incredulous.

"That is exactly what I was about to ask." Is Steve's response, poised to move the second the newcomer poses a threat. "FRI -"

"You can think of me as the cavalry." The woman says, and her lips tilt with a soft smile. "Things have taken a turn since I was last here."

The answer earns a sharp scoff from Rocket, arms falling and paws automatically resting near his weapons. "I don't think that counts as a proper introduction." He shows her his teeth, a crooked mashup of harsh and uneven points. "They like those here on Earth. You know; a name, a little bit 'bout yourself."

"Sounds like we need an icebreaker." She says, posture relaxed. Unconcerned. It's clear she doesn't view them as a threat, and it puts him on his toes.

"I've had enough of those for one lifetime." Steve interrupts, expression stern.

Glowing Girl (Rocket has decided this is a fitting title for now) nods in understanding, but doesn't immediately offer anything else. She just looks from Steve to Rocket and back again, something like recognition flickering behind her eyes the second time she lands on the former. Whatever it is, Steve doesn't reciprocate. If anything, he looks a little uncomfortable. His brow pinches and his lips pull into a tight frown, jaw ticking as it goes.

Quite frankly, the raccoon in the room has no idea what he's witnessing. There's no handbook to understanding nonverbal exchanges, or social put-downs to pick-up. It isn't something he's well versed in, either. Interaction with others in general is not his strong suit. Try as he might, Rocket strikes it to the outs or pitches the batter a curveball more often than not. The metaphorical diamond is not his preferred field, basically. In fact, he's not even entirely sure those turns of phrase are accurate. He's been planning on trying them out for weeks, testing them out mentally in preparation for blowing Steve's mind with his traditional sporting event prowess.

Again, the woman breaks through his train of thought. "Do I know you?" She raises a hand, shaking her finger and pursing her lips. "I could swear I know you."

"You're mistaken." Sounding rather flabbergasted, Steve plants both hands on his hips.

"Are you sure?" She pushes, squinting a little harder. "That doesn't happen often."

"I get that you're havin' a moment of delusion and all," Rocket snipes, and her gaze redirects to him. "But can we cut to the important shit here?" She inclines her head to signal for him to continue. "Are you leaking radiation?"

This causes her to pause and look down at where the ends of her hair have yet to lose their gleaming otherworldly color. "Not as far as I know."

Rocket turns his head to look up at Steve, already looking his way. "Well that wasn't very reassuring."

"That's your most pressing concern?" Steve looks like he wants to push his own face into the wall to get away from both of them.

Frowning, Rocket swivels one ear to keep tabs on the personified glowstick. "Are you tellin' me it's not yours?"

"To be fair, it's a good question." Comes from the side, and both of them look at the bemused woman. "Though no one has shown any signs of deterioration from being in my company."

"_See?_" Rocket waves a hand in her direction. "Your priorities just aren't straight!"

For the umpteenth time in the span of mere minutes, Steve's brow pinches and he looks to be exercising serious restraint by not cracking the wall with his skull. He does allow a displeased sigh, screwing his eyes up to the ceiling as if posing a question to whatever higher power he finds resolve through. Then he closes his eyes, chest rising and falling with a deep breathe through his nose, before dropping his chin again to acknowledge the elephant (read: woman) in the room. Rocket takes the tiniest bit of pleasure from his continued frustration in the face of their nonchalant approach to the situation at hand. He lives for the little things.

Their opposing tactics and reactions have been the source of squabbles since they left Wakanda, and the buffer of other beings between them. Minuscule things, important things, it didn't matter. Who got to fly the Quinjet, whether or not they made pit stops, if it was appropriate to commandeer items from other rooms in the compound, how often bathing is really necessary, should they make jokes about the dead - the list could go on enough to fill an entire chapter of a character-centric fiction work shared through online media platforms.

On the one hand, it's been an interesting sort of learning experience. Steve is the picture of a good health, with shiny teeth and morals to match, with flaws buried underneath heaps of bullshit and a practiced audio-book-worthy manner of speech. Rocket is... Well, none of those things. He thinks bathing is optional, and washing your clothes is a waste of resources, he's never brushed his teeth in his life, eats whatever is available whether he likes it and is good for him or not, his moral compass points northwest instead of north on a good day, and his flaws are practically displayed in a neon sign arching over his ears.

No one Rocket has ever surrounded himself with has been such an upright, contributing, productive part of society. Much less closely acquainted with good hygiene.

"We've talked about this." The man occupying his thoughts sighs out.

"We have." Rocket concedes, shrugging. "And I thought we decided you were wrong."

Steve gives him a no-nonsense look that bounces off like a Nerf dart, and promptly decides to invest his efforts in making some headway with the woman instead. Understandable. It's probably only going to turn into a whole _Thing _if they keep going, a back-and-forth with no foreseeable end or satisfying conclusion. The raccoon is willing to let it go. For now. Later, when they've hopefully made it through this scenario they're knee deep in, he'll take the pin from the board and pick it up where they left off.

"You said you're the cavalry." He says, and she nods patiently. "Who called you in?"

"Nick."

A beat, and then two. "Fury?"

"You call him Fury?" She asks, brow and lip quirked upward.

"You call him Nick?"

**_Titan?_**  
_?_

Metal shifting. Prisms sliding against each other propelled by a force that science lacks the ability to explain. Dull gold and faded orange collapsing and expanding, pulling away and apart. Releasing power. Nothing but power. Pure, unbridled, held in this time and space by nothing but carved stone. Stephen feels it as the Eye of Agamotto opens, breathes it in in a way he's only ever had a taste of before. His fingertips buzz, the ungodly force in front of him fades through the bright green light emitted from the small object suspended in the relic hanging at his sternum.

It's a moment, and it's all he has ever needed. His fingers curve and he releases his breath and knows he can't go beyond a few minutes from now, he knows -

He knows nothing, for a moment. Nothing. His brain is scrambled, vision blurred. Stephen has to blink away the disorientation, draw back to observe the physical plane he's no longer occupying. It's his last moments, the last moments of nearly everyone in the ruins of Titan. He knows, but he doesn't have the time to dwell on it or take it in. Thanos, standing over him. Tony Stark, wounded and determined nonetheless. The Guardians, unaware of fate coming toward them like a brutal reality check. The kid, who shouldn't have to be there but he _does_ so there's no time for sympathy. The girl with replaced limbs and a life stolen from her, twisted and pounded into more metal and wires than skin and bones.

A moment of discord in the universe, a defined spark in the line of time. Seconds that are happening, have happened, will happen, have always been bound to happen. Stephen angles his hands, twisting his wrists, and then pushes his arms outward. He's propelled backward as the world around him takes on kaleidoscopes, fragments of time and the universe at large contained in sharp, misshapen frames that rotate and move with no apparent pattern. He catches bits of color, images, expressions, landscapes.

Red staining green, spikes of gold light catching blades of grass. The forehead of a woman, with a quirked brow and light hair. Skin burnt and cracked, blood like lava spilling from the split. A stone glowing purple, flickering in and out of existence. A city skyline, spattered with bursts of light. The familiar bent line of a monitor in a hospital. Green skin and dark hair. Blue eyes reflecting an all consuming gold light display. Dirty, ripped army fatigues. A thin smile and the gleam of metal, the barest glimpse of the handle of a blade. Dark clothes and dark skies and wet cheeks. Red and blue landscapes slipping and shifting, thin shapes twisting. Dark blonde scruff along a strong chin, teeth highlighted by a grin. Torn uniforms and matted hair, rocks painted red, clouds broken apart by metal structures, weapons and armor discarded in the dirt.

It's all gone before he can capture more of it. Slipping through his fingers and out from underneath him without warning. Everything is shrouded in an orange fog, thick enough that he can hardly see his fingertips at the end of his hands. He's not even sure he's moving, though he's sure he's _trying _to go forward.

This is a place away from time, away from reality as they know it on their familiar small scale. Which makes it impossible to tell how long he wades through the haze of amber and apricot shades, nothing but a blur of blue light. A colored outline of his form, mostly rendered transparent in this space.

When the barrier of fog breaks away, it's without warning. An electric shock tickles his fingertips, an uneven landscape of red and grey masses is revealed to him. Constantly in motion. Shifting, meshing, twisting, melting away and growing back just as quickly, the ground beneath him rising and falling as if the world is breathing. And, much closer, a bronze vehicle reminiscent of a submarine with a thick cord trailing from the backside. Just beyond that, on the other of said cord, a silhouette outlined by a warm, pale glow.

"Repeat after me: two. And then, after that? One. It's easy."

**_Upstate New York_**  
_2019_

On the outside, the Avengers Compound is silent and empty. A shell of what it used to be, and could have been, and should have been, and had been imagined to be. Once upon a time, people would have had to leave their modes of transportation outside of the garage due to the number of S.H.I.E.L.D., Stark Industries employees, and sort-of-superheroes parked inside. Almost always someone running laps outside, or enjoying the seats in the sun, or running tests. Someone manning the cameras and the doors. Neatly trimmed bushes and trees, freshly cut grass, the winding driveway power washed to perfection. The big circled 'A' of their symbol shining on the side of the building. Windows so clean and clear you could have touched up your makeup in them.

Now, there are no vehicles abandoned out front. Just a couple cars and a bike in the garage, with too much room between them. Overgrown grass threatens to invade the driveway and walkways. Weighed down by the telltale flurries of snow beginning, the flora inside the walls is wilted and dying. Bushes with leaves and limbs sticking out at odd angles, lopsided and bordered with weeds of various sorts. The symbol on the building is dull with dirt and splattered with spots of brown and grey. The lack of time and care put into the appearance is telling, disheartening. Nothing like Luis had imagined.

He has, for the record, imagined it a lot. Luis has always known he would end up here, as a Honorary Avenger even if no one has officially thrown around the title. It's just that he had imagined it a little different, from this, in more ways than one. A little something like this...

_Mood lighting: dim, blue, serious. Background music: Adele's 'Hello', rising steadily to convey the climactic moment. The scene: Avengers Headquarters, deep underground, super high-tech planning room with spinning screens and lots of blueprints and surveillance photos. Scott: across from him, suited up, nodding. Captain America: hand on his shoulder, their taskmaster. And Luis: the man with the information, filling them in on Scott's newest nemesis they need help defeating. They give him a uniform, a badge that says 'Luis: The Informant', and a suit with some cool gadgets to kick ass and take names. _

"You lost it."

Luis is pulled from his thoughts like a hole from a donut, and reminded of where he is. The lights are bright and white, the only semblance of music is the hum of machines, the room they're in is on the first floor and has glass walls that look out into a training area, and a table in the center with projections of data and photos of living and dead persons. No blueprints for suits and buildings, or photos of some new foe for them to combat. He's wearing dirty sneakers and faded jeans and the same purple polo he's owned for a decade, not a fitted uniform with a polished badge or an impressive suit. Most importantly? There's no Scott.

Around him isn't the typical Avengers cast, either. Captain America - _Steve, _Luis reminds himself - is standing to his left with his arms crossed, muscles threatening to ruin the shirt he's wearing. _The man should get a new wardrobe_, he thinks, _because that shirt is sinful_. Beside him, standing on a chair, is raccoon named Rocket who talks and wears a vest. As in, actually speaks. English. In full sentences. He speaks with the mannerisms of middle schooler sometimes, but it's still pretty impressive. On his other side is a very pretty woman with a very scary serious face going on, clothed in baggy black pants and a white tucked in shirt, who he learned a few minutes ago is called Carol. She's a little terrifying, and he's a little starstruck.

Seated directly across from Luis is a man who looks to be in his late forties, early fifties, wearing a wrinkled suit and tie, hair unbrushed, bags under his eyes. Harold "Happy" Hogan, Head of Security and Asset Manager for Stark Industries as well as Operations Overseer for the Avengers Facility. Last - but most certainly not least - he's drawn back to looking at the two screens highlighted on the left of the table, both the size of his torso and offering live video of people from the waist up.

On one is the Black Widow - somehow even _more _enamoring than the buff blonde in the flesh with them - but they all refer to her as Nat, or Natasha. Both of her elbows are balanced on a dark table, quietly dangerous figure highlighted by a dark maroon jacket with black stitching at the sharp elbows and shoulders. The other holds the image of Bruce Banner - the _Hulk _who Luis has to hold his breath not to have a minor fan freak out over - and Thor, sitting so close that they're touching shoulders to both fit on the screen. Both are wearing tank tops, dark at the neckline and armpits with sweat, lounging on a bench. The large Asgardian has one arm extended, holding whatever device they're chatting from.

"Lost it!" The raccoon howls with a laugh, pointing at him with one dirty claw. "A whole vehicle!"

"Not really." The X-Con Security Consultant cuts in, and when all eyes in the room turn to him he gives a sheepish smile. "But it's lost."

Natasha rubs at the bridge of her nose, sighing. "You are aware that sounds a lot like you lost it?"

"Almost exactly like that." Carol nods, though there's a bit of humor in the lilt of her words. "So you lost it?"

"Sort of -" Luis begins to concede, but the noisy sputtering to his side cuts him short.

Rocket is practically wheezing with his guffaws, waving a paw messily. "He lost it!"

"Please -" Steve stops, looks away and clears his throat. The movement of his cheeks is almost imperceptible, but Luis is sure he's holding back a chuckle. A chuff. It's glorious.

"But not like, lost it, lost it, you know what I mean?" As soon as Luis says it, it's no longer in question.

Steve Rogers, Captain America, painted in comics as a stone cold serious and respected operator, actually _snorts _when he tries to hold it in. He looks absolutely horrified at the sound, but it lasts for only a split second before his surprise causes him to release a laugh. In response, Rocket is bent at the waist and wheezily panting out words that make just about no sense. This only seems to make the man beside him try not to laugh, resulting in another snort and a few coughs in an attempt to compose himself.

"It's -" Rocket manages between laughing fits, wiping at his eyes with one furry arm. "- So _stupid! _Even he -" here he gestures at Steve, who resolutely looks ahead as not to break again. "He laughed! It was funny!"

Bruce, wiping sweat from his nose, shakes his head. "If you don't know it's whereabouts, it's lost."

"That would be the definition." Is Natasha's confirmation.

Clearly, Luis decides, they do not know what he means. He's going to have to break it down to them, in a classic show of the adult pursuit of education. This is his lecture hall, he's the certified specialist, they're his debt immersed students, and the subject is retracing your steps.

"It's like, in high school, during those ACT tests, and you let your buddy borrow your favorite pencil." He starts painting the picture, and this time they let him. "He has a pencil, but you need the wooden number two pencil 'cause they're strict about the details on those tests, and all he's got is a mechanical pencil because his family is all 'save the trees' and won't buy them - like this guy I knew named Jerry, that I met in a business mentor group. He said it takes one tree to make only thirty pencils, which didn't sound right, so I went home and Google'd it, and he was wrong." Luis pauses, making sure they all have a chance to take in the utter betrayal in his eyes, and then continues."

"The instructor is all giving the rules and regulations, and he's doing a three-sixty flip off the handle looking at his pencil. So you're all: 'it's good, bro, I have an extra.' And he's gobsmacked all: 'I swear I'll give it back, you just saved my education man.' But then he forgets to give it back." Luis gives another stop here, to shake his head. "So your buddy takes it home and you're like 'man, I really want that pencil' so after the weekend you ask him about it. Except he let his sister borrow it for an essay on the effect of media on young adults, and she let their dad borrow it for the daily crossword. Which he doesn't get to finish, because his wife comes around asking about needing to make a grocery list. Dude just got off work, trying to relax, he's trying to think of 'apparatus' but all he can think of is 'asparagus' because she's talking about dinner, and she can't find a pen, and his stomach starts growling 'cause she made him hungry. Now he just wants dinner, and it's taking over his thoughts so much he won't be able to finish, so he just gives her your pencil."

From the second monitor comes Thor whispering, starting up a sidebar with Bruce. "Are you following this?"

"Only slightly." Comes the response, paired with a shrug.

"Oh, good." Rocket comments offhandedly. "I was startin' to think this was just another _terran _thing I wasn't getting. But he's just incomprehensible, that's good."

"No, no." Carol raises a hand to stop them, eyebrows raised. "I think I get it."

Luis gifts them all with a wide grin, slapping his hands on his knees. "See, she knows what I mean!"

"I do, in fact, know what you mean." She confirms, and spares a smile of her own.

That doesn't seem to be shared by the others, though. Which is fine. It's not entirely uncommon for Luis to throw people off of their mental axis and leave them momentarily speechless. It's like his everyday superpower or something. He should probably start using it as a talking point from here on. There aren't many people who can say they sat in a room with most of the Avengers and blew their collective minds. Aside from Carol, they're all regarding him as if he's presented them with a particularly impressive math equation or moral conundrum.

Rocket, for once, seems to have abandoned the possibility of following any of it. He's distracting himself with a cell phone that presumably does not belong to him, because Luis is pretty sure only humans can sign up for cellular plans on Earth. Pretty sure. Maybe he's wrong. In the seventeen months - it's been almost a year and a half, he realizes, the time seems to have passed with no warning - since everything changed, anything could have happened. They've seen that, now.

"Where do we start?" Carol asks, facing him fully and disregarding the lack of understanding from the others.

"Okay, so, get this." Luis takes a breath, blinks, and leans forward in his seat with both hands spread in front of him. "Back in March - but last year, okay, obviously - Scotty was getting ready to get off of house arrest. After, you know, he was sixty-five feet tall and you guys kind of destroyed that air port, and violated all kinds of laws. Which was pretty sick, by the way, just in case nobody told you -"

"No one told me." Natasha interrupts, teasing a smile in his direction.

"Because it wasn't." Comes Steve, giving the screen a stern look that falls flat since they aren't face to face.

"But it kind of was." Luis chimes in.

Taking a temporary interest, Rocket raises his nose. "It sounds like it was. How come I haven't heard this story yet?"

"Because -" Bruce sighs.

"It is a subject of contention, rabbit." Thor finishes for him, nodding sagely.

"_No._" Steve tries again. "It's because -"

"You're keeping me out of the loop."

"No one actually wants to -"

"That's not the point -"

"If we could all just -"

And again, the conversation is cut off by one of their other companions. The minor topic quickly snowballs into something more, with multiple people speaking at the same time. The only people silent during the discussion are Luis and Carol. Although, he isn't really sure this is a discussion anymore. Maybe an argument, judging by the tones and looks thrown around, but without the yelling. They're bouncing off of each other so quickly it's a little hard to keep up with, even for him. That's saying a lot, considering how often he and the Wombats speak over each other and run sentences together.

Luis' attention keeps hopping back and forth between the group, eyes darting back and forth like the ball in pinball game. The whole thing would be a little entertaining, fascinating, and enlightening if it weren't so convoluted. Also a little off topic. They're supposed to be figuring out where his van is. By association that, hopefully, means Scott. It's sort of why he's here.

"Oh, _I _see how it is! It's because of the fur, isn't it?"

"Who cares about your fur -"

"You have a remarkable pelt -"

"That's not really the kind of compliment -"

"Knew this was an awful idea, I -"

Hard to believe only yesterday, he was in San Francisco. Unlocking the X-Con office doors, to start the day. Alone. The same thing he does every Monday through Friday, because despite doing it himself he knows that's what Dave, Kurt, and Scott would have wanted. It's what they would have done. The Incident brought with it a boost to business with all of the theft and vandalism and mayhem, so even if he had ever considered closing the doors (and he never has, not once, not for a moment) there was always a reason to stay in business. X-Con is practically a staple of the city, now. There isn't much else left to rely on.

Still, the increase in popularity hadn't prepared him for the pleasant surprise of Steve already inside, sitting in the waiting area just as patiently as if he were there to get a camera and alarm system installed. Luis certainly hadn't been prepared to board a Quinjet to New York, either, but there was no hesitation or pause to pack an overnight bag before he left. Even if it hadn't been _the _actual Captain America, the mentioned possibility of Scott being alive somewhere made it a nonissue.

"Okay, moving on -" Steve raises his voice to cut through the arguing, but the attempt fails.

Still lamenting and spitting, Rocket mocks him. "_Okay_! Okay, this. Okay, that. I'm startin' -"

"Please, stop while you're ahead."

"He's not really ahead." Happy comments.

"Well -"

"Enough!" Carol yells, and both hands slam onto the table. The connection makes it rattle, and brings everyone to a halt. Even Rocket stops, phone in one hand and the other making an obscene gesture in Happy's direction. "You're all worse than fledglings." She straightens herself and inclines her head toward Luis, blonde hair bobbing with the movement. "Go on."

"Okay..." Luis waits, to make sure the commotion is really done with, and decides he's probably best off skipping over the epic law breaking section this time. "Back in March, like I said, Scotty is having these wicked crazy dreams and guilt tripping himself, because the Pyms had to go on the run right? And they're all mad at him, because they didn't think it was cool either, and is only kin of his. They're all: 'you exposed us!' And he's just like 'oh man... my bad.' But they won't hear it, because they gotta run from the government, so we're all '_damn_' thinking they're gone."

Here he pauses, to ensure they're all still following. A couple nods and rolling hand gesturing indicate they are, and he can continue. The only one not paying him any mind is Rocket, slouched in his seat with his claws clicking on the screen of his mobile device.

"My main man is getting ready to catch some sweet z's only to be wham-bam knocked out by Hope - that's Hank's daughter, and she and Scott are like mad feisty for each other - and kidnapped. She put his anklet on a big ant, like large dog big, I think it's Antony but I can't really tell them apart. So she's telling him his dreams are real, and he's being her mom - Janet, she's kind of a badass who lived in the Quantum Realm and fought space beetles called tridentgrades - which is kind of weird, and he's freaking out. Thinking some kind of _Back to the Future _type scenarios, all kinds of creepy, but Hope is still talking about childhood games and how _she's _got a suit and they need to rebuild a tunnel and how much he's an asshole."

"Sounds like all Earthlings are assholes." Rocket grumbles, still pouting at being silenced.

"Anyway, my buddy calls me up and tells me to keep Jimmy - he's in the FBI, in charge of Scott, he keeps telling us to call him Agent Woo but he looks more like a Jimmy than a Woo - but he needs me to keep Jimmy busy, because there's some evil scientist with a teenage supervillain. Except, she's not, because she was good inside all along. So I'm all: '_what?' _And he's all 'I _know,_' woah." For dramatic effect, he gives another pause. "But then an evil businessman named Burch kidnapped me, Dave, and Kurt - those are the Wombats - and gave us some truth serum, which I didn't even think was real. That's like a movie thing, yeah? But it's real. I accidentally gave them up, but we all got spooked by Ava - she's the teenager, Hank calls her Ghost and she can disappear for _real _for real - so he ran, and we had to warn Scott. He and Hope took me on car chase through San Fran' and people destroyed buildings -"

Bruce's surprise make him unable to hold his question, and he makes a funny noise in his throat. "That was you guys?"

"Yeah, man." Luis confirms, and nods seriously. "But that was before everyone else got arrested."

"But not you." Rocket huffs, sounding almost disappointed.

Shrugging, Luis responds. "Not this time. 'Cause Scott had to get home, to see Jimmy so he wouldn't go back to prison, so Hope and Hank get caught. He had to break them out of jail which was, you know, pretty cool. Then they had to fight Ava, since she was trying to kill Janet. Apparently she has some kind of Quantum Particles in her bones, and that's what Ava needs to stay alive. Also her dad kind of died during some experiment, and she was left with that weird object permanence issue, so she kind of hated them anyway. And that's where the car chase comes in, but we were going to get back to that."

"How does this tie in with where Scott is?" Bruce questions.

"Hank had to go get his wife while everyone was fighting, like some Notebook level movie worthy scenario. And when she got out, she just gave Ava some of her particles. And Scott got off house arrest, so they made a plan to go harvest more for her. Except, Scott wasn't supposed to tell me, because Mr. Pym doesn't realize my brain is like a vault."

Looking a little disbelieving, Happy sighs. "But he did?"

"Of course! We tell each other everything." Thor and Bruce exchange a look, so Luis repeats himself. "_Everything."_

"So he went back to the Quantum Realm, while we were fighting Thanos?" Carol has her brows furrowed at him, trying to get some clarity.

"Yeah. They couldn't use the lab, seeing as they're sort of wanted and people tend to notice huge buildings popping up in a day. So they went all _Pimp My Ride _on my van, right, and Mr. Pym put a new engine in it so it didn't stall on the Quantum highway or, like, actual highway." Luis can't help the grin that perks his cheeks. His van had never been cooler. "They're all mobile operating, and going around California on something like a spirit quest, but for middle-aged white people with science."

"We find the van, we find Scott." Steve says, and Carol nods.

Finally, they're getting it. "We just gotta backtrack."

"Like with the pencil."

"Exactly."

"Hold on, hold on." Bruce is shaking his head at them, looking at his hands like there's suddenly something different about them. "It might not be that simple."

"Why?" The blonde woman present in the room looks at the monitor holding the curly haired brunette as he frowns and looks up. "We find the van, we turn it on, we pull him out."

"I don't know where the van is, but I know where the lab is." Luis puts in helpfully. "It's just a little... little."

"It just doesn't work like that. It - just - hold on."

Bruce retreats from their view, and Luis can faintly pick up on the sound of papers and objects being shuffled around. Thor is leaning this way and that to watch, curious. The rest of them do as he says and hold their horses, waiting as patiently as any of them are able to. Even Rocket's interest has been caught again, but Luis has a feeling his level of dedication to the conversation is very heavily influenced by who is speaking more than what the subject matter is. It takes maybe a minute, give or take, and then he's sliding into his seat and turning a thick sheet of white paper toward them, with a hand drawn diagram of a sort.

Luis can make out a few planets, their own included with an arrow pointing to it and '_US_' alongside it. More planets and stars and the works, only some of which he recognizes. All of that is under the title of '_SPACE/MIDGARD_' in big, thin, tight letters. Above that, connected by a thick red line, are a few squiggly floating landmasses with various labels; '_ASGARD, VANAHEIM, ALFHEIM, NIDVAELLIER, JOTUNHEIM._' At the bottom, underneath even Midgard, are more; '_SVARTALHEIM, NIFLHEIM_' all connected by the same red trail across the paper.

Off to the side from all of that, unconnected, is a badly drawn... Sinkhole? It is labeled as '_Q.R._' so it's safe to assume it's supposed to be the Quantum Realm. Atop the side with the Quantum Realm is a squiggly, uneven line, and over the other side is a neat circle. Needless to say, Luis has no idea what to make of any of it beyond some kind of odd take on a map. Bruce holds it there, on display, braced against his thighs with one hand on top while the taps his marker on the side.

"This isn't exactly my area of expertise." Bruce admits, grimacing. "But this should work."

Leaning around him, Thor momentarily blocks the paper to look it over before leaning back again. "Yes, well, your placement could use some work as well as the artistry, but a decent initial attempt."

"Rocket has been sending me Tony's research." Bruce continues, and his gaze flits down to the paper for a second. "After Ant Man starting showing up, he went digging through SHIELD files, backed some of them up a few years ago."

"He means all of them." Rocket amends. "Did you know he was a hoarder, because it's a real problem."

"The point is that, in theory, this is us." Pausing, the man pokes at Midgard with his marker and taps it once. Then he draws an invisible circles around everything on that side of the paper. "This is the Nine Realms. Essentially, a bunch of planets in different spiral galaxies connected by Yig-drahs-ill."

"Ig-drah-sill. Yggdrasil." Thor corrects him patiently, patting him heavily on the arm.

"Yggdrasil." Bruce tries it out, and receives a proud look in response. "For all intents and purposes, it's a cosmic nimbus linking everything. Our space -" the marker taps on Midgard, "- to Asgard's space -" a tap on the upper area, "- to Niflheim's space. Are you following me?"

"Not really." Happy admits, leaning his elbows on the table and getting closer to squint at the screen. "But continue."

Thor readily jumps in to supply an explanation. "The Nine Realms are our worlds. Earth, as you know it, is Midgard. The Sixth Realm."

"Wasn't Asgard destroyed?" Chiming in again, Rocket holds up nine claws and then tucks one down. "Aren't we down to eight?"

Such a simple comment brings a thick silence to the room, one that Luis isn't sure he should break. Clearly, the topic isn't an upbeat one. He might not be totally in the loop, but he's not entirely clueless. He watches as Steve looks away, Natasha bridges her hands in front of her face, Happy rubs at his eyes, and Carol's hands rest at her hips. Bruce cuts a look to the lone Asgardian among them, whose expression moves between sour and neutral. Eventually, Thor's brow relaxes and the lines fall from his forehead and he breathes, and smiles.

"Asgard has never been just a place, Rabbit." Before the subject gets any further discussion, he pushes ahead. "Yggdrasil is a tree of life, the world tree, that keeps all of our worlds connected. It's roots stabilize our universe."

"In _theory,_" Bruce tries again, with a wave from his large Asgardian companion to continue. "We operate on the commonly considered normal structure of space and time. A linear flow. It happens, we experience it, it's the past. It's going to happen, we haven't experienced it, it's the future. To get somewhere you have to move through space in some amount, which takes time. Presumably, Yggdrasil's influence keeps this consistent."

Happy is nodding now, joining the class on the same page in the metaphorical textbook. Luis is glad he admitted to not understanding, because he was entirely lost. Owning up to that in a room full of heroes and geniuses is hard, though. And embarrassing. Mostly embarrassing, actually. The older man must be used to it by now. He's been doing this for years, and before that ran with the Stark crew. It makes sense, Luis decides.

"The Quantum Realm -" Bruce taps his marker there, and then on the contorted line above it. "- might not. If it doesn't, we're going in blind and won't have any way to find him to bring him back. Hank Pym's notes indicate it operates outside of the rules we adhere to."

Eyebrows flying up, Steve crosses his arms. "Might not? What does that mean?"

"It _means_ I don't know have enough to go off of to say for sure." The scientist confesses, shoulders falling with the return of a frown. "Biochemistry, gamma radiation, and nuclear physics can only get me so far here and a lot of what SHIELD had was redacted when the Hank Pym quit."

"And your boy genius didn't leave behind much that makes sense." Supplies Rocket breezily. "We haven't even made it through half of his shit yet, and most of it is already useless."

Quietly, almost to himself, Happy provides his own commentary. "When Rhodes found Tony in Afghanistan, he didn't ask for water or food or a doctor. He asked him to call Pepper and Obadiah, because he wanted an immediate press meeting. And then he wanted a burger." He huffs out a laugh. "He told everyone, right then and there, Stark Industries wasn't going to produce weapons, or be part of war profiteering."

Luis remembers that. Turning on the television in 2009 to see Tony Stark all banged up and sitting down, asking everyone else to sit down, to get a little less formal. His first appearance since being discovered as not dead, and he had reporters sitting and crouching on the floor with him. It had been laughable, at the time, and shocking when moments later he tore down what Stark Industries had been known for since the 50's. That moment would later be recognized as the true start of Iron Man, and comic books come to live, and movie level battles warped into the real world around them.

"Tony didn't want that, anymore." Is the sigh Happy continues with. "After Obadiah, he knew letting that kind of technology get into the wrong hands was dangerous. I doubt it was an accident, making things incomprehensible."

"He didn't tell you anything?" Carol asks, and when he shakes his head her eyes search the room instead. No one meets her gaze. "Not one of you?"

Natasha drops her hands flat on the table. "If he had, he would have changed it following Siberia."

"Is there anyone he might have?" Nothing. "No one at all?"

"No one still around." Happy deadpans.

Not that it really helps, but Bruce adds anyway: "Erik is going over what we do have, from the Pyms and Tony."

"What about Shuri?" Steve asks, and Luis notices the way Natasha inspects her nails at the conversational shift.

Thor shakes his head. "Indisposed. Last we spoke, the Lady of Wakanda was traveling to supervise reconstruction efforts south of here."

"She never mentioned it."

"She has a lot on her plate." Natasha adds, but she's still giving the green polish on her nails a serious look.

Despite the reasoning, Steve pushes. "FRIDAY, did you receive any response from Shuri when you tried to contact her?"

"No, Captain Rogers. Her automatic response system informed me, and I quote: -" FRIDAY almost seems to be trying to mimic the young woman's voice, then. "Call me, beep me, if you want to reach me."

He looks down from the ceiling, to Rocket. "You sent her the files?"

"Do I use your toothbrush to clean my claws?" The raccoon jeers swiftly, showing off the sharp bits for them.

"Is he joking?" Luis asks, mildly horrified.

"He's joking."

"I'm _not _joking."

Again, the Captain frowns at the group. "Are we sure she's just -"

"Steve." Natasha cuts him off, voice sharp with a warning but laced with understanding. "She's only a kid."

"Right." The man in question deflates, bracing his hand on the back of one of the chairs. "You're right."

Steve looks so human, suddenly. All of them do. It was easy, in all of the talking and exposition, to overlook it. Luis can see it, now, brought out further by the bright lights. The bags under their eyes, the slump of their shoulders, the meaningful looks exchanged between some of them, the way Mr. America stares hard down at the seat of the chair. Without the news and radio coverage, the blurry photos, the screen separating him from them, they seem so much more mortal. Smudged makeup and chipped nails, fading hair dye, some of them look like they've forgotten what a hairbrush even is, rumpled clothes. Flawed.

With Scott, it was never hard to distinguish between the man and the mask. Or forget about the mask altogether. Shared history provided a bridge. Like most others, it had never struck Luis that they would be very much the same. Maybe the pedestals they were raised on - and some of them, dragged down from - added to that. Those flurries of hype, coverage, and excitement never quite reached the same levels with Ant Man, for various reasons.

Now, sitting here surrounded by people painted as untouchable, the realization is unnecessarily uncomfortable. Seeing Steve waiting in his office to steal him away, he had simply assumed they had a plan of action. A set course. An idea of what needs done next. Something to put into action, with a little bit of help on his part. It's painfully obvious they don't. Like the rest of the population, they're at an impasse. Unsure. Stuck. At the same level as everyone else, with only a little more to go off of.

"We start with the lab, right?" Luis inputs, when the room remains still and silence unbroken. All eyes drift to him, in question, as if they've forgotten the original conversation.

"It doesn't do us any good if everything is miniature." Natasha points out after brief consideration.

Words filled with determination, Carol puts a piece in the pile. "So we make it big again."

"Sorry, I don't carry around mass distribution switches." Rocket scoffs. "Those aren't a real thing, by the way. That's what makes it funny."

"What if, stay with me," Luis muses. "We get a microscope. One with the extra zoom-pieces."

Bruce shakes his head. "We run the risk of damaging something. If at all possible, we need to keep everything intact."

"Lady FRIDAY?" With the way the smaller man beside him winces, Thor must be yelling to make sure he's heard. "Are you present?"

"In a physical sense, that is a loaded question." The artificial voice comes across amused, accent light and lilting. "But in a manner of speaking, I am always present."

"Did Anthony provide you with a method of infiltration into other systems?"

"Affirmative. Boss equipped me with multiple offensive and defensive capabilities, to suit many situations. The primary usage was to create an uplink with government and SHIELD servers, as well as a link with the equipment present in the home of Thaddeus Ross."

Surprised, Bruce raises a question of his own. "What was Tony doing establishing a tie-up with Ross?"

"My connection was utilized to alter heating and cooling arrangements throughout his home, as well as disable lighting. Secondary objectives involved monitoring search and investigation related to yourself, Doctor Banner. In recent years, this was extended to include the renegade Avengers."

They all consider this, before Natasha gets back to the point. "You could get into Pym's lab, then?"

A pause, which makes Luis wonder if the man-made being can really think things over, and FRIDAY responds. "That is a reasonably safe assumption. My offensive measures should be more than ideal to bypass any implemented security, and disable safeguards to allow extensive access to available materials and data stored internally. External records and file would require a direct line to retrace the path taken to remove and displace them."

"So we start with the lab." Natasha decides, expression giving them no room for further argument or tossing around of ideas. "Where is it?"

"San Fran'. Forty-five square miles surrounded by reality." Luis informs her, full of pride. "I got that from Paul Kanter."

Bordering on smiling, Happy sits a little straighter in his seat. "Tony would appreciate that reference."


	11. Harrowing

_**Osaka, Japan  
**2019_

The rain hits the ground with enough force that it sounds like hail, almost deafening as it goes about carving miniature rivers on the sides of the streets and spattering liquid across windows like paint flying from a brush.

For most, it could be considered a disturbance. An inconvenience. Problematic. But for Clint, it's the opposite. The perfect cover, a distraction, a sound barrier to ward off prying passerby. It bounces off of the edge of his blade as it sweeps through the air. It makes his hood stick to his head and shoulders, obscures his vision when it slips from his head to get into his eyes. Blurs the world into nothing but colors and muffled sounds.

Of course, the latter can only be attributed to the trauma sustained to his ears. He had destroyed the modified earpiece engineered by Tony years ago in a fit of anger inside a cell under the water. It had been satisfying in the moment, less so when he realized no regular hearing aides would be able to live up to the standards he had set based on the advanced tech. But that's fine, anyway. He was dealing with his hearing loss fine before the assistance, he's doing fine now.

Not to toot his own horn or anything, but Clint never really needed any of the advantages afforded to him by being an Avenger. The connections, the technology, what have you. A life before all of that, even before joining SHIELD, made him rather well equipped to handle himself regardless. Being one of the only Avengers not enhanced or in possession of an overgrown brain has always been something he's proud of. A normal man, fighting alongside gods and heroes from comic books and space-age fiction novels.

And now, a regular man making a mark and taking justice into his own hands with nothing but those hands.

"Anata wa kono basho ni iru kenri ga arimasen." In front of him, the mob boss sneers at him in Japanese from behind his own blade. _You have no right to be in this place._

Clint cocks his head, grins behind the mask covering the lower half of his face. "Anata wa watashi o oidasu koto o kokoromiru tsumoridesu ka?"_ Are you going to try to kick me out?_

There's no response this time, as the older man rushes forward with a cry of anger. Clint dodges him with ease, slips to the side and lives in the shadows as the man turns about to find him. A well placed kick sends a rock catapulting into one of the nearby light fixtures, darkening the street aside from the neon signs down the way. The other man follows its path, engages again with two sideways swipes of his sword.

Again, Clint breezes away from the assault. His left foot kicks out, connects with the dark haired man's knee and makes him stumble to regain his footing. Taking the opening, the archer - if he can still call himself as much - makes a neat cut across his calf. The man cries out, falls to one knee, and quickly rights himself to face Clint again. He waits, raising one hand in a 'come closer' gesture that the mob boss follows without hesitation.

Everything is a flurry of moment, silver lines of metal singing through the air and clashing against one another. Boots kicking up puddles, splashing and staining the bottom of their pant legs. Light flashing dangerously off of their weapons as they move through the air with little resistance. Clint feels the sting of the other man's sword as it marks a path through his arm and they both pause to consider the injury. One with mild amusement, the other with a victorious laugh.

"Amerikahito, anata wa osore o kanjimasu ka?" _Do you feel fear, American?_

"No," Clint responds in English this time, raising one hand to pull the mask down so it hangs below his chin to display his grin. "I feel alive. Do you feel fear?"

"Te wa kyōfu no yōna yowa-sa ni wa yakunitatanai." _The Hand has no use for weaknesses such as fear._

Shrugging with one shoulder, Clint draws his staff. "You'll change your mind."

Playfulness gone, the former Avenger continues his assault. A slice to the man's arm, a strike to his stomach, a sideways kick to his kneecap. An elbow against his ribs, his forehead connecting with the other person's nose, his staff sweeping through the air to land a solid hit on the man's skull. It's a dangerous dance, one that his the blood in his body humming and his heart pounding with _you're alive, he's alive _on repeat.

The smaller man twists away from him, cursing as he raises his weapon. Slow. Too slow. Fatigued, or maybe hindered by his injuries. It doesn't matter. The split second he takes to raise his arms is all Clint needs. He jabs the butt of his staff into his gut, relishes in the pained noise he makes, and his piece pierces the other man's side. They both go still. The world goes still. The rain seems to freeze in the air.

As the moment passes, Clint pulls his blade back and watches the other man fumble his sword before dropping it. It lands perfectly in a puddle, mostly concealed by the gathering of rain water in a pot hole. The handle wavers with the rain hitting it, the blade catches bits of colored light through the muddy water and reflects it back onto the man's face as he hunches, looking down at his newly sustained injury. The man cradles his wound, gasping, and Clint thinks he should be concerned about the complete _lack _of concern he feels. An introspective tangent to explore on another day, when the world spins at a normal speed and his pulse isn't skyrocketing with adrenaline.

"One name." Clint breathes out, the same words he had given upon his arrival.

"Your obsession breeds weakness." Is the gasped reply he gets. The thick accent makes it a bit hard to catch at first, especially with his hearing, but being able to read lips helps. "You will be refused."

"And you'll die." He points out dully.

"The Hand will value my sacrifice."

Bitterness coats his tongue when he speaks again. "Will your family?"

"They will mourn." He spits and blood mixes with the water, washes past the soles of Clint's shoes. "I will be honored."

"If they can piece you back together." Clint threatens, raising his blade to the man's throat. He can see the sweat beading on his forehead, see the strain in his neck as he lifts his chin. He's going to crack. "Maya Lopez."

"Died in New York." He laughs, a crackling sound like a screen protector breaking.

"Echo." Clint tries instead, brows rising with the tip of his katana.

"She will not receive you, Abenjā." _Avenger,_ the word coated in contempt_. _Another laugh, this one riddled with coughs. "Her ghost wanders Hokkaido."

It's all he needs to know. The man's laugh is cut off with a wet, sickening gurgling as his blade opens his throat. The stays on his knees for less than a minute before his body crumples in front of him, nose down in the same puddle as his weapon. He didn't have any new information, nothing that Clint hasn't already heard. It's disappointing, but not entirely unexpected. He makes a note to visit Hokkaido again, before he goes to China to reach the Hand's Anzhou Laboratory.

"And now yours can wander Osaka."

There is no pause of respect for the life lost. No momentary ritual to honor his life ending. Clint does not roll him onto his back, or close his eyes with the gentle pads of his fingers. He is simply dead, with nothing left to offer. One of many bodies left to the city, mirrored in the corpses scattered along the street around him. In the warehouse to his right are more. None of them are granted any parting pleasures or passing seconds of reverence.

None of them should have even been here. They didn't _deserve _to be here.

It's not his call. He knows this. When half of all life was taken away from the world, he was not passed down the mantle of God to pick and choose who should be worthy of extended life. No one was, or ever has been, assigned these duties. But maybe someone should have. Maybe someone should be overseeing this process, playing out a behind the scenes trial based on the lives of beings they have no bias toward. Or could have when a metal glove curved to assume the gesture of a snap, and pulled people into nothing through the air.

No one was. No one _is. _Clint has just sort of taken it upon himself, in his search for others who might have some clues or assistance to offer him. His search for people no one knew enough about to declare alive or ruined by the Incident. For people who went dark years ago, when SHIELD files became public and redacted events and beings shifted from rumors to reality.

Laura would hate this. Would hate what he's become. His kids would be horrified to view the scene before him, or any of the others he's left in his footsteps. In Colorado, in Mexico, in Beijing. It makes his heart ache to know this without an inkling of doubt. _It's necessary, _he tells himself, _they would understand. She would understand. _He isn't really sure, though, if they would. He isn't even sure if the others do. If they even fully know. If Natasha has chosen to disclose all of the dirty details of his ongoing activities.

Because yes, he does know that she's been following him. Hell, he would be blindsided if she didn't. He left behind plenty of breadcrumbs for her to peck at and follow. All intentional, all carefully placed for her discovery. And, he's sure, she knows it.

Still, she hasn't approached. Not even now, watching him. He can feel her eyes on his back as he returns his bowstaff to its holder and proceeds to wipe the blood on his katana on the protective gear on his lower arm. She's two blocks away, third floor of the mid-level building, fourth window from the left. Clint had made her before he even got started, alerted by the fact that it was one of the three only open windows on the building during a storm. It could have been brushed off, but the glint of her viewing glass caught between the water and light of a flashing sign called too much attention.

Clint is glad she hasn't come to him yet. He wonders if she knows he needs to do this. Knows that the ghost he's chasing is the most important thing right now, buried under layers of searches for mysterious persons who live in outlandish stories and organizations that exist only in whispers. Unfortunately, Natasha has always known him a little too well.

When he turns to face the building, he doesn't look up or give any indication he's aware of being watched. He just looks around him at the mess he's made and yanks his mask back over his nose so his features are barely visible with that and the dark hood. Then he walks in that direction. Toward the building. Toward Natasha. As he once did years ago, to recruit her. As he has many times since then, to satisfy the urge to know her. As he always has, whether it was what she wanted or what was expected or even, sometimes, what was right.

He won't go to her tonight. Probably not the next night either, but her continued and persistent watch of his back eases his mind. So he will, eventually. In a few months, in another city, chasing an Echo.

**_Tokyo, Japan_ **  
_2019_

Illuminations mark paths across the sidewalks and dance over the roadways, a light layer of snow coats the cement, painted glass calls out with flashes of color reflected in starbursts. People are wandering the streets, hands outstretched to break through the layers of hues and collect the snow as it falls, peering at street vendors with mouthwatering treats. Menchi Katsu and kibi dango, ice creams dipped in caramel or chocolate and crepes, green tea confections and Yakitori. A picture perfect for one of those vacation pamphlets found discarded at the airport bar and lounge filled with tourist attractions and markets and fairs and events of the year. Completed by some cheesy, alliterative title in swooping font on the front. _December in Tokyo _or maybe _Tokyo's Winter Wonderland Destinations._

But the lights will fade by the light of day and the snow won't stick. In the morning fog will dull the delicate glass frames and smother the transcendental smudges of pastel color currently smudged across buildings, fixtures, stalls, various silhouettes outlined against the deep shades of the city. It passes her by through the glass wall of the elevator, streaks against the wet aperture. The buildings rise and the clouds disappear behind their shadows as the lift takes her down. Past the windows of the structures reflecting the bursts of color, and the merchants, and the off-white flakes erasing the damage of the past twenty months.

Yellow lights and grey walls engulf her. Shortly after her mode of transport comes to a halt and the floor numbers beside the door light up blue. It scans her person, and the color shifts to white before fading away. The doors open to reveal a wide hallway with the SHIELD insignia in black on the wall. As soon as she steps into the corridor the doors slide shut behind her and she can faintly hear the elevator rising to publicly accessible floors of the building. Her footsteps bounce off of the walls in a way that has become familiar in her months there, as opposed to disconcerting or haunting.

Natasha barely makes it down the hallway and through the doors to the control room before she hears the telltale sound of an incoming communications request. Already knowing who it is, she lets them wait as she sits down her bag and gets comfortable in her seat. And then she lets it go for a few more seconds, because seeing Steve Rogers flustered is always a treat.

Giving a swipe of her fingers, she accepts. "You're getting needy, Rogers."

"You're getting rusty, Romanoff."

Immediately, she realizes Steve is _not _flustered. Rather, he looks mad. His jaw is tight and his back is stiff against his chair, arms crossed with long fingers curled over his biceps, the slight movement at his waist implies he's bouncing his leg. In front of him on a desk are some papers, though she can't make out what any of them contain. Still, probably safe to assume they're at least somewhat related to his expression. If she's going by that, the hard blue gaze aimed at her implies it involves her. Maybe Clint?

Inspecting him leisurely, Natasha relaxes into her seat and plants her elbows on the arm rests. His posture is all Captain, but his expression reads as Steve. Brows set low, but the slight crease in his forehead implies he wants to raise them and not furrow them. Back straight against his seat, chin raised, but his hands are notably loose in their grip on his arms. Lips straight and thin, though not entirely frowning. But the blues of his eyes are what really give him away. They're tired and soft as opposed to cold and stony. Shifting between her image on the screen and the papers set out in front of him.

Not angry. Disappointed.

The realization strikes hard in her chest, nibbles at the most human parts of her and tugs at the connection between them to unearth guilt. It's an expression she's been pinned with many times over the years, but this time seems worse than the others. Maybe due to their increased time together, or the bond that's naturally grown over the years. Or maybe it has more to do with what they've faced before, are facing now, and how she knows this must come across as more of a personal slight than it really is. Because it's not, of course, a personal matter. It's not about Steve, just like it's not about her. This - the moment, the situation, and what she's sure he's going to bring up - is about much more than that.

Natasha keeps her expression even to tuck it all away. She knows if she lets it shows it implies she's conceding to being wrong, to not doing what should have been done, and she hasn't yet. Probably won't, even after he guides her through what he perceives she's done wrong. Neither of them is on the wrong side here, she knows, but it always feels like someone has to be.

"I'm inclined to disagree."

Shaking his head, the blonde man reaches down and flips one of the papers as he holds it up to face her. "Next time you take on an protege, it might be wise to stress the importance of being secretive."

The paper turns out to be an out of focus photo, presumably from the phone of a bystander. It features a figure in a dark suit with pointy ears and light blue eyes, crouched on a desk that is in a state of disarray. Papers scattered, a lamp half hanging from the edge, a tablet knocked to the floor, chair turned over in someone's haste. In front of the figure is a young woman in a white doctors coat with short brown hair and pink painted lips. She looks rightfully terrified, pushed back as far as possible against the wall with a notepad and pen clutched against her chest. The only things that point to this as being a new iteration of the Black Panther are the heavy gauntlets and the long braid with tight rings falling down their back.

Steve sits the paper to the side, and then lifts another to show to her. That one is placed with the last, and he repeats the process another four times. The same dark figure, blurred while running along the overhang of a bridge. Another, oversized gauntlets with shining claws outlined against a building with a glass wall. Caught mid-leap over a light stream of traffic. Standing over a scruffy man with one fist aimed at him, gauntlet glowing light blue with the telltale signs of an energy pulse. Perched against a metal railing, poised to propel themselves over the ledge.

Unfortunately, it looks like Steve is right. Clearly the importance of being sneaky has been lost on the younger woman.

"_Hokkaido Catches Claws." _The blonde is looking down at another paper, reading off the title for her benefit. "That one is Rocket's personal favorite, he has it pinned to the wall in the lab."

"It's catchy." Natasha admits after a pause.

Both of them go quiet for a moment, just watching each other. It's hard to tell what's running through his head. Natasha usually prides herself of being able to read people, especially the ones she's been around for years now. Currently, it's hard to tell. Steve is keeping his expression clear enough that she can't tell if he's gearing up to chastise her, or question her, or scream, or laugh. All this time working around spies has done wonders for his ability to hide things.

Eventually, Steve is the one to break the silence building between them. "I thought we were past this."

"You're making this out to be more than it is."

"Am I?" He snaps back quickly. "You lied to me. You _both _lied to me."

Frowning, Natasha leans forward. "Would you have even considered it?"

"Of course not!" When he raises his voice, she grimaces. "Damn it, Nat, she's just a kid. You're the one who said that."

"It's what she wants to do."

"But would she have wanted to do it if you hadn't led her to it?"

"She wanted to do something, I gave her something."

Exasperated, Steve lands a hand heavily on the table. The force rattles the table and makes his image shake. "You have her running around risking her life like -"

"Like a vigilante? Like an Avenger?" Natasha cuts in swiftly, slicing a hand through the air. "Because she is."

"Is that what we do, now?" Steve scoffs at her. "Send untrained recruits into the field with no experience, no idea what they're doing?"

"She's eighteen, Steve. She's young, not stupid. Shuri would consider the comparison an insult, frankly."

"We've wasted resources trying to find her." He says, as if she needs any reminding after his near constant requests for updates from all of them. "You deliberately led us away from her. The Wakandans have no leader, Bruce has been juggling her lab by himself, and Okoye has been on a hair trigger."

The rising anger in his voice does nothing for Natasha. She stands her ground, firm in her position. Refusing to break eye contact. "I did what I thought was needed."

"You did." Steve says, and shakes his head. "Trying to redirect the blame to yourself doesn't absolve her."

"I wasn't trying to." She lies easily, raising one brow in his direction.

"You should have told me." He asserts, and his tone leaves no room for argument. "You both should have told me."

"And if we had, she never would have gone."

They're at an impasse. Clearly no one is going to be backing down any time soon. Both of them are stubborn, and pretty stuck in their different ways. Steve is already speaking again, raising some series of arguments she's determinedly tuning out. There's no chance she wants to hear them and, quite frankly, it's not going to change her mind.

Letting Shuri have an out, a reason to leave her home, was for the best. The girl was only burying herself in her own frustrations and guilt, bordering on twitchy with how on edge she was making herself. Burning herself out of signals and readings and papers that make no sense to the common eye. Besides, what's the point in christening her as the new Black Panther if she's going to sit in a lab every day? Out in Hokkaido, searching for Danny Rand, is where she needs to be. It's important.

Danny Rand is the man dubbed as the Iron Fist. The Iron Fist is connected to the Hand, in many ways. The Hand is one of many villainous underground societies wiping good people and things from their new world, with undeniably valuable knowledge on persons, places, and things of interest. The Hand is also connected to Maya Lopez. Maya Lopez is, Natasha knows from her research, a good woman turned villian turned questionable potential ally known as Echo. Echo is connected to numerous mobs, mafias, gangs, the works, including the Kingpin's group of jackasses. The Kingpin is connected to many more potential allies, through his fights with them - and the list goes on.

More importantly than all of that, Maya Lopez is connected to Clint Barton. And that's why Natasha is here, at the end of the day.

Really, Natasha has to admit she's the one best suited to the task as well. She knows him, through the charity he's sort of the head of, and through the work his parents did in her country during her youth, so he won't run upon seeing her. She's not easily recognized out of costume, so she can get around easily. She has enough of her own funds to get around without raising suspicion.

So is the work in Wakanda, of course. Natasha knows that. She knows what it means, what it could mean someday, for all of them. That doesn't mean it's where Shuri belongs right now, or that it's what's best. She was practically running on fumes and caffeine. Losing her sense of direction and forgetting what they were working toward. In the months she's been considered M.I.A. she seems to have... recovered, for lack of a better word. Righted herself.

Natasha thinks she has, at least. She has to take a few seconds to recall the last time they spoke, a little under a week ago. Hair pulled back in tight braids with magnetic bands to keep it in place when her suit is active, wearing loose purple pajamas with a lines around the edges that twist into rectangles, squares, and diamonds. Dark makeup smudged underneath her eyes, a few bruises littering her skin, but grinning wide as she described her hunt for Rand and encounters with various transgressors. Overall: exhausted, but excited nonetheless.

_I'll take it,_ Natasha decides. Better tired and a little banged up than looking like a child experiencing their first Halloween with no idea of the potential goodies in store for them. Focused on the trick, rather than the treat. It's been good for her, and finding more comrades is good for all of them. They've always known there are others out there, doing the same work (sort of, usually, at least) so looking for them now only makes sense. Going at it alone is the only part she really doesn't see eye to eye with Clint on. Had it been posed in a more reasonable, less stab-happy way, everyone would have gone for it. Now it kind of just looks like a low budget Kick-Ass sequel featuring a really bad haircut.

Somewhere behind her comes the _'shhhck' _of a door opening, followed by the sound of boots with thick soles against the floor. Natasha thanks whatever omnipresent force that drives the universe for the interruption. She's willing to legitimately beg Coulson to distract Steve with his 'classic wide eyed childhood fanboy' impersonation while he runs through their usual updates and conversations. All this time knowing the man behind the shield, and there's still a bit of him that hasn't grown out of it.

"Did any of you consider how much we could have used Shuri's help with the new hardware Carol hauled in?"

"So we're calling her _Carol _now?" Natasha jeers despite herself.

"That's really the hill you're willing to die on." It's not a question, it's more a flabbergasted statement.

And then, bringing the rest of the world to a screeching halt: "You replaced me with someone named Carol? I like that. Sticking with the 'c' names, keeping it consistent, balanced. Gucci, right? That's what's cool now."

There's no brief pause, no second thoughts, no consideration. Natasha knows that voice. She knows it better than anything in the world, including her own reflection. She's known it for years. That tiny nagging voice in the back of her head, some would call it her conscience, might even sound a little bit like it. Automatically, she's waving a hand to cut Steve off. It has no impact. He's still talking at her and looking up as if some otherworldly being is going to respond instead of her. Which, okay, that's fair. She _was_ kind of ignoring him for a minute there, give or take fifteen seconds.

"Can we pick this up later?" She interrupts, and he stops with his mouth open and head up to gape at her in mildly offended disbelief. "I'll call you this time."

"Hold on -"

A laugh from behind her. "No, really, let him finish. This was getting juicy. I've been missing out on all the workplace gossip."

"Goodbye, Steve."

"Nat, you can't expect to just -"

Without any further ado, Natasha presses the escape to end the call and then presses her thumb to the power button. He's only going to try to call again, and if she doesn't have the monitors on FRIDAY can't force the communications through. She turns her chair and stands to find herself faced with, to no one's surprise, Clint. It was only a matter of time before they ran into each other, whether she stepped into his metaphorical swamp or he got tired of being followed and came to her instead. Now that it's come to the latter, she knows not approaching when she could have was the right choice.

"He's right," Clint snorts and pushes his uncomfortably uneven mohawk - faux hawk? - off of his forehead. "You're getting rusty. The seconds you Lavender Ladies hit the ground I saw you coming."

"Or I wasn't actually trying to be discreet." She admits, looking him over again. "New suit?"

"Kind of." He nods. "It's from that time I thought retiring was a good idea. Haven't dyed your hair yet?"

Natasha hazards a smile. "You know, that's the question everyone keeps asking."

"You shouldn't be here, Nat." Clint says, and even though she knew it wasn't coming she still pauses to mourn the movie worthy hug and tear-jerking sentiments that never got to breathe.

She gives the slightest nod of her head to one side. "Neither should you."

"That's true."

He drops his hands to his hips and does a slow turn to take in the room. They've rearranged since their arrival. Placed a table behind the main monitors, moved a few mobile stations to said table, updated some of the operating systems and hardware with help from Shuri, disabled a few terminals and stacked them against the wall farthest from the door. There's no one to maintain them, and letting them run endlessly is a bad usage of power.

"This kind of place just really doesn't suit me, you know?" Clint raises one hand to gesture vaguely at their surroundings. "Not quite up to my standards. I'm a five-star-hotel kind of guy."

"I've seen you sleep on a couch without cushions inside of a moving van before." Natasha points out, and the indignant look he turns just to give her forces a smile to break her features.

"I'm going to ignore the lies, slander, and calumny you're directing toward me." He wags a finger at her in warning, like a chastising parent, until the green eyed woman swats his hand away from her nose. "I was being serious."

Red brows raising, Natasha huffs a laugh. "That's possible for you? Amazing. For such an old dog you sure have learned _a lot _of new tricks."

"So, you and Cap are still bickering like politicians? A few years didn't change much." The swift shift in the topic from Clint doesn't go unnoticed, and she's sure he knows it.

"Did you think it would?"

Clint scratches at the short, fuzzy hair at the back of his head and shrugs. "Not really. I figured you'd follow me." He shrugs, and holds a hand up with one finger out and the others curled down. "I figured you'd bring along a new face to keep me on my toes." Another finger ticks up. "I figured you'd catch up eventually, I mean, you took your time but it still counts." And a third finger rises. "I figured I'd find you here." A fourth, and hopefully final to signal the end of this tangent, finger joins the fray. "I should have known you'd still be trading verbal blows with the Not-Iron-Patriot."

"If it isn't broken, don't fix it."

"No need to tell me that." He says, and there's a lofty smile beginning on his face but his eyes are distant.

Natasha doesn't need to ask to know what he's thinking about. Home projects on top of home projects, a nonstop cycle of additions and adjustments and tweaks to propel their residence to perfection. Listening to Laura loudly contemplate to herself about what nonsensical venture he's going to surprise them with next, because she knows he's going to find something one way or another. Teaching his kids how to use small tools and fix little things for themselves. Fastening handmade bookshelves to walls in Lila's bedroom, a shifting tangram puzzle on Cooper's wall, a rolling playset to move Nathaniel around the house. It's better, she knows, not to ask.

If she asks, he'll tell her. Even though he has to know she knows, he'll relive his loss through words to reassure her that there's nothing else under the surface and there's no bridge to cross between them. He's already spent twenty months doing that on his own. Making him do it again now won't help him get past it, and she doesn't need the reassurance.

"You had me." Clint says when he returns from whatever memory he was entrenched in.

"I did."

"In Osaka." He clarifies, unnecessary as it is. "You didn't call it. Why?"

For the second time, a disturbance comes in the form of the door opening behind Clint. He's just a little taller than Natasha so she can't see past his shoulder but she doesn't need to to know who is joining them. It's not as if there are very many people coming down to this level. Or very many who know about its existence, for that matter. Most of the ones that do are already accounted for. There's a bit of shuffling and the light crinkling of a bag being sat on a tabletop paired with light footsteps.

"Actually," Coulson chimes in. "_I_ had you in Hell's Kitchen."

In front of and still facing her, Clint goes still. His expression pinches in way that causes her secondhand pain, eyes darting across her features for some sign of a bad joke. When he doesn't find one his jaw goes slack momentarily and she wonders if he might be disconnecting from reality in his shock. She can practically see the rotating loading symbol on his forehead. The whammy passes as Clint lets out a laugh. His head falls back to expose his throat and his hair flops back with it, one hand on his chest and the other shooting out to brace itself on Natasha's shoulder.

"Okay, you got me, _that one_ I was not expecting."

** _Wakanda_ **  
_2020_

Success. It tastes sweet, in the face of all of the obstacles they've faced in the year Carol has been involved in their efforts to fix the disaster that rocked the universe. Even sweeter knowing she was part of it.

At Rocket's request, she had left a few months ago to travel to Easik. A planet three jumps away with grey skinned inhabitants with four arms who aren't much interested in branching out beyond their throneworld. More importantly, a planet with advanced - but limited - technology. Needless to say, they weren't exactly easily compelled to part ways with any of it for her. She can't really blame them, either. The Easik people have never been the most welcoming, preferring their privacy over frequenting other planets or space ports. Peaceful, and quiet in their corner of the galaxy. Reluctant to share their technology due to not having much of it, and not wanting to branch out to amend the problem at its core.

When Carol had made it there, she had found them even more reserved than ever. Wary and paranoid, still constructing makeshift memorials to the dusted and walls around their cities to keep out potentially hostile visitors ransacking other planets. Hiding in the thick of trees and cities tucked away behind hills. Lost, after the dusting. Missing notable figures and scientists and developers and struggling to piece their society back together. Left without a driving force behind their endeavors, unlike Earth. No figurehead to assess the damage or consider solutions.

So, understandably, the Easik weren't very excited to see her. Refusing entry to their capital, threatening her with electric spears. Her requests for an audience, to barter, to inform them of what's happened were all waved off without a moment of consideration. The simple mission had turned out to require a lot more time and dedication than anticipated. Erecting monuments, entertaining locals, giving (arguably just a _little _cocky) displays of her power.

In any case, she had done it. Earned a piece of trust and convinced them to part with valuable technology. Radars that can detect jump impacts and distress signals from at least five galaxies away with varying clarity. Transmitters and receivers than can cross the same distance, given some time.

They necessary additions to the works required the dismantling of the communications device previously assembled in the front lawn of the Wakandan palace, which made it a fitting time to change the placement as well. More work that, of course, earned plenty of complaints from Rocket. But it was worth it, in the end. Shuri's lab is higher up and better equipped to handle and work with the technology. Vision - or, what is left of the man who once was - had assured them that younger woman wouldn't mind the intrusion. Carol doesn't think it would have mattered if she did, considering she's M.I.A. but that's just her opinion and she's not going to voice it to start an argument.

All of this brings them to the aforementioned laboratory, standing around the well-built display hooked to the spiral shaped machine to her right. To her right stands Bruce, one hand rubbing worriedly at his mouth. Across from her is Rocket, staring sourly at the display as if it has personally offended him.

"You don't look quite as excited as I had hoped." Carol admits after a prolonged silence.

Rocket grimaces at her as the brunette to her left starts clicking away at a mobile command. "You wouldn't be either, Goldilocks."

"Did you learn that one recently?" She shoots back with a scoff and he shrugs.

"As a matter 'o fact, I _did_ so suck that into your pipe an' burn it."

"Put that in your pipe and smoke it." Bruce correctly him absentmindedly.

"Whatever. You knew what I meant." Rocket snaps his teeth and shakes his tail irritably, raising his claws toward the equipment they're facing. "Just play th' damn thing, would you."

There's no response from either of the sort-of-humans this time. Instead, Bruce brushes his thumb over a slide and a light blue light spreads in front of her. It grows and morphs into a shape that at first only vaguely resembles a person before it clears up and the details dial in. A man, with messy brown hair and some... interesting unkempt facial hair. Carol recognizes him from photos and news broadcasts of the tragedy that came over them approximately two years ago. Unmistakably, Tony Stark. Living. Breathing.

At least, at the time of this recording.

_"I made another friend."_ The lit up hologram pauses, looks over his shoulder conspiratorially, turns forward. _"Okay, so maybe not a friend if you ask some people. To be fair, he did kind of try to blow us out of the... Well, not sky. I can see how Blue's Clues would take that with a grain of salt."_

"When is this from?" Carol asks as he continues on for a moment, detailing an assault from another ship. A minor transport vessel, if she had to guess by the description.

"A few months after." Bruce intones quietly.

_"His name is Haze. Really 'My Immortal' of him, right? Definitely no Dementia, though." _Carol knows that name, and she's sure Rocket does too if the sharp look he gives her is any indication. A mutate arms dealer, wanted on seven planets for distribution of illegal wares. _"He may or may not be where I got Flubber from." _Most importantly: he specializes in capturing and transporting symbiotes for weaponizing, sale, and testing. _"So, you know, that one came back to bite me in the cheeky bits. We left him in orbit of... Ah-kon. A-khon. Aakon?"_

Tony's image shifts to lean back against either a chair or a wall. It's impossible to tell. The image capture doesn't go further than his person, whether by design or due to power limitations. Looking at him, Carol has to wonder where the man behind the Iron Man mask went. This doesn't feel like the same man she's seen videos of, or articles about, or news coverage over, or stories of. He seems so much older like this, curled in on himself a little. Worn. Defeated. She wonders what he saw with Thanos, what he saw before the snap, what he saw during, and what he's seen since.

_"You would really like her, Pep."_ The hologram of Tony grins, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, addressing someone she doesn't know. Hasn't met. It's safe to assume they too are gone. If he ever makes it home, and Carol is fairly sure that's not happening judging by the grim looks around the room, he's bound to be disappointed.

_"She's resourceful. Disassembled part of her arm the other day and used it to fix up my chest. The nanites weren't going to hold it together much longer."_ His hand falls to curl around his side where the injury was, and he looks at something out of view. _"A little short, but she's warming up to me." _He goes quiet, and looks around, seeming to lose his train of thought.

Carol watches as he looks back toward the recording device, blinking slowly. When he closes his eyes and goes still, she wonders if he's fallen asleep. She wouldn't be surprised. The brunette man looks exhausted. Even in the blue projection she can make out the dark bags under his eyes, and the delay to his movements. Without opening his eyes, he leans forward where he's sitting, one elbow landing on his knee. He rubs at his forehead with that hand, and sighs.

_"Same time tomorrow?"_

The room falls silent as the projection fades down to fragments of blue and then is gone altogether. In its place a cube the size of her fist rotates in the center of the open display, waiting. Carol isn't sure what she can say. It's clear this hasn't been a positive discovery for the others. Rocket looks angrier than she's seen yet, but is uncharacteristically quiet despite it. And Bruce has a hand rubbing over his mouth, looking down at his handheld still.

"There are more." The scientist tells her eventually, dropping his hand from his face.

"How many?" Carol asks, planting her hands on her hips and turning to face him directly.

"Twenty-seven." Rocket huffs his answer. "And it's just him. All of them."

She doesn't want to ask, but Carol knows she needs to. "What does that mean?"

"It's just _him._" The repetition from the raccoon does nothing to help her.

"He mentioned someone else, in the recording."

"Nebula doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Oh, _I don't know_," Rocket gives an exaggerated shrug and looks around to an invisible audience for feedback. "Maybe because she's tried to kill us - me - twenty times? She's kind of, just kind of, _shithive maggots _in the head?"

"So I take it you don't trust her?" Carol snips back sarcastically, and he scoffs and nods.

"She'd sell 'im for a six ceagar trip to the next planet to get off of that ship."

From the side, Bruce gives his two cents. "She's mentioned in most of the recordings."

"That doesn't mean she didn't bail." Is all Rocket points out, crossing his arms stubbornly. "Besides, that's just _one _of us."

Carol decides to ignore the usage of 'us' that includes her in their gang of goofs. It's not worth the tangent he would go off on to defend and justify his wording without admitting some sense of attachment. "How many are missing?"

"Five!" He snaps, showing his teeth off in her direction. "Don't know if the force taught you how t' count, but that's a pretty big fuckin' difference."

"Play back the most recent transmission." Carol directs this to Bruce in favor of acknowledging the incoming outburst.

Bruce nods, flipping through some files and pushing on the slider again. Just like the last time, the image materializes in front of them. "Six months ago."

This time, Tony is sitting cross legged in front of the recording device. She has to assume it's some remains of his suit, but she'll get confirmation from Bruce later. He look worse this time than in the other one. The time has clearly taken a toll on him. It shows in the weight lost along his torso and face, cheekbones highlighted painfully in the hologram. He's hunched forward, braced against his knees, looking just on the edge of dozing off, his hair and beard are scraggly to the point it shows a lack of care that wasn't entirely evident last time.

_"I was really hoping to pull one more feat of pure thickheaded determination and will." _Tony laughs, a hollow sound that fills the room. _"I don't think that's happening this time. Our repairs to the convertors and engine aren't stabilizing. If the whole thing doesn't take us down in a blaze of glory, we're not going to make it another month when the power reserves crash." _He pauses, lowers his voice, drags a long breath that looks like it hurts. _"I'm sorry, Pep. I'm going to miss the wedding."_

Inside her chest, something cracks. Her lack of intimate knowledge of this man, his life, his relationships, doesn't take away Carol's empathy for his situation or take away from the way the pain in his voice spreads to her person like a virus. The way his voice cracks on the last word practically rips into her lungs to release the air from her body. It rushes out in a quiet _'oof' _that she's sure doesn't go unnoticed by her comrades.

_"We've rationed everything else as much as we can." _Tony nods to himself and the hologram blurs with the quick gesture. _"Nebula doesn't have to eat as much as I do. Supposedly, some of her organs have been replaced with parts." _He manages to smile a little fondly. _"Not that I can tell how much of that is her just pulling my leg. She hasn't quite mastered the art of joking, yet. The other day she sealed off the halls and made me think the power reserves were low enough to confine us to one section of the ship. I don't think she's ever been so proud of pulling one over on someone, and it was kind of a shitty prank as far as pranks go."_

The lighthearted expression moving over him doesn't quite reach his tone. When Carol looks away from him she catches the sad gaiety in Rocket's eyes, the nostalgic drop of Bruce's shoulders.

_"I should get her back for that."_ The unspoken edge is there. The 'while I have time' lingers in the seconds of silence that follow. _"Same time tomorrow?"_

Carol know this is the most recent recording. She knows that this means, with very little room for doubt. There is - was - no tomorrow. No more recordings. No more final words or brief attempts at correspondence. These are the last words of Tony Stark. The last traces of his existence, scattered through space with no apparent path.

Mourning once is tragic. Heartbreaking. A subject of ruin and despair. Mourning for one person twice is shattering. Desolating. Two years of assuming he was taken by Thanos or the Incident. Two years of not knowing what was really at play. Two years of moving past all of the death that followed the Titan like flies follow death. There are no words of consolation fit for this situation, because it hardly ever happens. There's nothing to be said to lighten the weight of this moment, of the viewing of these late words.

It becomes clear, after an uncounted number of minutes, that no one else is going to speak. It's conceivable they have nothing to say, or have already had it out between the two of them before calling her back to Wakanda. There's no telling how long they've known about these recordings, or how long it's been since they listened to them. At least a few hours, judging by the fact that Bruce must have watched every recording.

"Who else knows?" Carol questions, breaking through the lapse in discussion.

"No one." Bruce shakes his head. "Steve and Happy are in California with Luis, Thor is with Selvig in New York, James has cut off his comms."

"We have to tell them."

"Way to state the obvious." Rocket's tone is full of contempt and anger, and she can't find it in herself to blame him for it. "How do you want to go about that? Condolence cards?"

Carol waves a hand at him. "Not ideally."

"We should have been out there." The raccoon continues, trying to pretend she never spoke apparently. "Looking for them."

"The ship -"

"Is gone." Rocket is incredulous now, pacing and snarling at her. "They're gone! If we had been _out there _actually being _useful _and _looking _-"

"And how would you have done that?" Carol whirls to face him, eyes sparking gold as he toes at her last nerve. "What are you proposing should have been done differently?"

"If you had let me take your ship -"

"How would you have found them -"

"I would have at least _tried _unlike the rest of you! They died out there -"

"And someone else could have too." Carol takes a step toward him and he pulls his lips back to threaten her with a wide set of gleaming chompers. "On a blind search and rescue with absolutely no information -"

"So fuck them, right?" Rocket hisses through his teeth. "Just leave them to suffocate either way?"

Just as Carol is gearing up to tear into him and get into a heavy debate on reasoning and logistics and just how stupid a blind jump into space with limited resources and troops would have been, she's interrupted by Bruce stepping forward. As caught up as she was, she never realized she and Rocket had moved to be within a foot of each other in their face off. The brunette man has put his mobile display down to hold both hands out. One is facing each of them, palm out, as he gives them an exasperated look.

"Turning on each other now isn't going to help any of us." He asserts, looking pointedly at _both _of them. Carol wants to childishly inform him that she did not start it. "We need to do better than this."

"You know what?" Rocket throws two paws up and hops down from his perch with an aggravated noise. "_You_ do it better! I'm way past bein' over it. Count me out."

Before any argument can be formed or resume, their furry cohort stomps over to the door. His claws click the whole way with his hard steps, until the door opens in front of him and he makes a sharp turn down the hallways and out of sight. Bruce drops his hands and stares at where he's disappeared. The door closes nearly silently behind him to close them off. There's a sense of finality to it that hushes any complaints Carol has about his attitude or inability to constantly work well with others.

"He's a heathen." Carol finally says, when the silence starts to get uncomfortable.

"He's not wrong." Bruce responds, and she tries not to be bothered by the fact that he's right. "There was always a chance."

From overhead, a new voice butts in. "I feel it would be beneficial to inform you," Vision manages to come across as hesitant. "Rocket is currently boarding a Fighter Jet."

"He's stealing a jet."

Nodding in resignation, Bruce returns: "He's stealing a jet."

And they're left with query of whether or not he's going to come back at all.

** _Rose Hill, Tennessee_ **  
_2020_

_"Approximately five minutes from your destination, Colonel Rhodes."_

"Got it, FRIDAY. Thanks."

_"It's my pleasure, Colonel."_

Of course it is. Rhodey supposes this is sort of her bag. "Read it back to me one more time."

_"Certainly. Locals have sighted a bogey bearing striking resemblance to the Iron Man suits in La Vergne, Woodbury, Smithville, Alexandria, and Watertown. The range and consistency of the sightings indicates a nearby base of operations. Scouts deployed in the area have found no new or notable anomalies or structures in the area."_

For the past six months, he's been chasing down rumored sightings of Iron Man. It seems a little unrealistic to most, to think there's a chance that two years into all of this the man made of metal (but not really just metal) has returned to Earth. The last time anyone saw him he was shooting into space on the heels of an alien ship that just dropped into New York so casually it was like visiting a relative for a cup of tea. They don't even know if he actually managed to get aboard and didn't just shit the bed and end up floating through space. There's nothing to suggest he even made it long enough to experience the Incident at all, much less survived past that. The snap was unbiased and, arguably, fair. With no preference for who it removed from reality.

What Rhodey does know, without a doubt, is that Tony Stark is - was - the most stubborn man he's ever known. Whether it was something inconsequential, like whether they should have burgers or pasta for dinner, or something out of their hands, like the time of his death. The man has proved time and time again that he just won't die. It became sort of hilarious, and worrying, after the third time. By now, it's impossible to comprehend that something like a snap could rid them of his existence.

Always, fate had had it in for Tony. One way or another, things always seem to rip apart under his feet and send him sprawling on the floor. But somehow, for as many times as he had clawed at the brink of self-destruction and personal catastrophe, Tony always came back. Sometimes he pulled himself back. More often, the universe refused to let him go and dragged him back from the pits of peace to the real world again.

Beyond all odds, Tony Stark always came back alive.

Looking for him like this is reminiscent of floating over sand dunes in Afghanistan, looking down the scope of a mounted gun for any signs of life. Any signs of Tony. People had given up, long before they found him, assumed he had succumbed to hostile forces or the elements. But Rhodey never stopped looking, and Pepper never stopped funding his expeditions, and neither of them ever stopped asking questions.

They had found Tony, dehydrated and burnt by the sun, a man remade in the sand. A man with a new purpose. Just as determined and stubborn as ever, though, rambling nearly incoherently about a press meeting and conferences and diversions and funds and assets and immediate shut downs of whole departments. None of it had made sense, at the time. It had taken months for anyone to take that, or him, seriously. A few years showed them all why he was right.

"Do we have any new footage of the bogey? Traffic cameras, eyes in the sky, radars - you can't tell me Tony tapped you into everything he could find and we've got nothing."

_"Not all image relays have been reactivated since the Incident. Scouts are still executing repairs and creating new uplinks after reported damages and outages." _FRIDAY chides him lightly, and he grimaces. _"Most cameras in the area have been disabled, and it does not seem unintentional."_

Rhodey considers that, for a few moments, as he passes over trees and roads and the beginnings of the small town of Rose Hill. "How bad are we talking?"

_"Essential parts are missing from most units, motherboards have been burned, traffic cameras disassembled, and all Scouts deployed for repairs in the area have been disconnected from communications uplinks. Trackers confirm that they have not left the area, but return signals yield no results."_

In the top left of his visor, FRIDAY displays a report for him. It shows a map of the area, including surrounding cities. He can see a silver sot speeding along, representing himself. A little ways from him, in the bordering cities, white dots wind back and forth with a clear path, a structure, a predetermined guideline. In and around Rose Hill, are clusters of red dots. They're in groups of five or sit, rotating and shifting through the town and the lines of trees at random.

One of the groups comes his way, halts, and heads back. Rhodey stops midair, repulsors in his boots keeping him steady and upright as he watches the map. The dots don't come towards him again, continuing their haphazard path through treelines and skirting a small river.

"Did you see that?" Rhodey asks.

_"The Scouts redirected themselves back toward the city. Their programming should keep them close to their target area."_

"No," he frowns at the dots and her lack of understanding. "They moved away from me. They knew I was coming."

All those years of service are certainly proving their worth, now.

The more Rhodey looks at the clusters rotating and shifting, he's sure they're in some kind of formation. They're avoiding the streets, direct contact with people, but lingering at the edges of roadways and alleys to get an idea of what's going on. Going through the trees on one side of the river, and going down the other on their way back. Moving too sharply to be automatic, adjusting their path too quickly to be coincidental.

It's not an aggressive formation. They're not planning to charge into the next city to take over, or form up a mechanical army. Not doing recon, since they aren't going far from the town. Defensive. Rhodey is certain of it. They're preparing, maybe, but he isn't sure what for. Keeping a perimeter. On guard. Taking watch. What he's not sure of, quite yet, is whether or not they're being monitored.

"FRIDAY," Rhodey starts straight toward the town, leaning forward. "Enlarge that display."

_"Absolutely, Colonel Rhodes."_

The multi-color image expands to take up a little under half of the display. It's easier to make out the individual sections of Scouts like this. The ones operating under FRIDAY's supervision are on their own individual quests for parts and repairs. The ones in his area are in triangular formations, each individual Scout moving one spot to the left at ten second intervals. The closest to him now is coming up on a side street, further into the town. It lingers there, and then retreats.

"Are the Scouts outfitted with any forms of defense?"

_"Minor shock bands are located on the exterior and interior of all pods to dissuade outside meddling."_

"So no?"

_"In theory," _FRIDAY does not sound very convincing. _"The shock bands only stun a person for three to five minutes."_

"In theory." Rhodey repeats, a little incredulous, as he makes a careful approach toward the Scouts.

_"Testing showed the voltage lacked consistency and needed further adjustments."_

"That's..." Rhodey heaves a sigh that turns into a bit of a laugh. "Not surprising."

And why should it be? Nothing was ever as simple as it should have been, in theory, with Tony. The thought makes him laugh again, before it makes something deep in his chest fall and shatter, and he has to wipe away the memories to focus on what's in front of him.

One hundred feet away, the triangle of Scouts is beckoning him. Less than that, underneath him, a few stray pedestrians are gawking at him. _Probably best,_ he thinks,_ to keep them away from the Scouts and their shock bands_. So he goes to them, tilting in the air and flying faster than any vehicle he's ever had the honor of piloting.

Rhodey has always loved flying. The idea of it, the reality of it. It's why he got into the Air Force, originally. Why he dreamed of it in his childhood, and considered it in his teens, and found himself climbing the ranks in his twenties. Getting to look through the glass of a plane, or a chopper, or some high tech jet - or anything, really - is exhilarating. This, moving through the air in a suit of heavy metal like it's nothing, is something else entirely. He can feel the way the air moves around him, the way the War Machine suit protests against the wind. It makes the child inside him jittery, high on a rush of adrenaline and joy.

That child has to be, briefly but necessarily, ignored.

Lowering himself to be just a few feet off of the ground, Rhodey moves through the nearly empty roadway. He uses his left arm to signal his turn to the alleyway the Scouts are currently moving through, because that's just courteous. Also, it's the law. And they sort of need that, if they want to properly rebuild society as they once knew it. The brick walls and dingy trash cans make the alley seem darker than it probably it, but it's still a little foreboding.

"Light it up." Rhodey says, and on cue FRIDAY hits the lights.

Literally, that is. Two panels, one on each of his shoulders, lift to reveal round lights. They turn on, bathing the area with bright white light. Disorienting to foes, but also good for seeing through artificial fogs and smoke. Rhodey can practically see every bit of dirt on the concrete, every chip in every brick, every stray piece of trash. Everything is captured by the suit, and FRIDAY by relation, filed away for her perusal.

When Rhodey is less than twenty feet from the Scouts, he can see them. Seven golden, ovular pods with little blue lights on the front.. Hovering at the very end of the alley, as if debating which direction they want to go. He's slow, cautious, in his approach. Nonetheless, they retreat. He follows them, the sides of the buildings surrounding them a blur.

They dodge and weave as if they know the streets personally. Moving out of the alley and into the open doors of a closed garage, speeding through one side and out the other. He only has time to make out a couple abandoned cars inside, and dusty pictures on the wall before they're coming out the other side. Rhodey follows close behind them as they speed through a red light and twist around a few apartments, curve around the backside of a bar with one letter missing from the sign.

Rhodey glances to the left side of his display and is surprised to see not just the group of Scouts he's following moving, but _all _of them. In the opposite direction he's being led by the group he targetted.

"FRIDAY keep an eye on those Scouts -"

_"I'm already on it, Agent Rhodes." _FRIDAY assures him swiftly, as he weaves through an empty home. The Scouts weave together and exit through the door of a long gone pet, and Rhodey's shoulder clips the door off the frame when he finds himself busting through it to keep up. _"There's a garage, east end of the town, I've marked its location."_

"Ten-four."

Abruptly, Rhodey veers upward and into the sky. He can see the Scouts continuing their escape, but following them isn't necessary anymore. He's on his back for a moment, staring at the clouds overhead as he redirects himself toward the golden square on his map. Then he twists in the air and feels FRIDAY redirect power to his boots to propel his forward faster.

This high up, he can see it. A shockingly dingy garage with nothing to offer other than rotting wood and rusty nails and old memories he's unaware of.

"Not Tony's style."

_"The residence belongs to a Melissa Keener - deceased following the events of 2018. Her only living relative is her son, Harley." _FRIDAY pauses, as if knowing he needs to absorb this. _"There is no present documentation of contact with the former residents or notable events in Tennessee outside of the crash landing in 2012 due to power failure in the Iron Man suit."_

Rhodey isn't sure, for the life of him, why Tony would keep something from FRIDAY. From the artificial intelligence named Female Responsive Intelligence Designed After You. It doesn't make much sense, but for such a little detail it nags at him. Because if he did, and there's always a chance... it means there's a chance that these sightings aren't bogus. There's a chance, however small, that Tony will be waiting for him with some witty offhanded remark about how he's a couple years late for their lunch date.

"Nothing else?" He asks, just to be sure.

There's a pause, and then: _"Not according to my databases."_

So, beyond reason and reality, Rhodey allows himself to keep hoping as he comes to a halt over the clunky garage. He can see a camera on the edge of the rooftop over the doorway, slowly shifting to look up at him. The door itself has no window, but there is a small door for a pet on the front. It's crooked and too small for anything other than a young cat or purse pup. The job seems to have been done hastily, and with little to no experience on the part of whoever did it. Likely with a jagged saw, judging by the crooked pieces sticking out. The little door is probably for the Scouts, he decides, because no one would risk impaling their pet on it. Hopefully, at least.

After a moment Rhodey lowers himself closer, moving around each side to survey the building, and letting FRIDAY scan everything. There are two windows on the right side of the shack, and no others. Both are tinted black and he can't see through them. The frames look newer than everything else, a detail that is likely only noticed up close. When he takes time to asses everything else, he notes that the door handle and one section of the roof follow suit. Done within the past few years, with the lack of weathering. The roof he only catches because of the slight color difference, though it looks like someone has tried to paint it to hide the inconsistency.

Other than that, it looks like your run of the mill old garage. _Looks like. _Rhodey has seen a lot of things that look like something they're not, so relying on that would be silly. Normal men who can shrink and grow. Normal women, who could kill him with their thumbnail. Normal forest critters that talk and shoot guns. A tree, once, that spoke and fought alongside them. Girls with brains larger than almost any living persons. Stones - rocks, pebbles, discarded fractures of boulders - that shaped the universe.

_"My scans detect an electronic guard around the building." _FRIDAY interrupts his thoughts. _"The camera system here has an educated blocking mechanism, each time I get close to getting in it realigns itself."_

"Noted." Rhodey nods, forgetting for a moment she's not really there. "What else do you have for me?"

_"Multiple electronic signals are bouncing off of the building. There seems to be a communications and uplink barrier preventing me from getting signals past it. The jammer would have to be Wakandan or SHIELD technology with this level of advancement." _A short pause. _"The Scouts trackers indicate they are more than three hundred feet below your current position."_

"Then I guess I better get digging."

Rhodey drops to the ground, the metal giving a solid _'thud!'_ when his boots touch the dirt. The camera follows him, watching his every move. He reaches up to the neck of his suit and one tap with two fingers causes his the nanites to move around him. The mask moves back to reveal his face, but stops there. From the neck down, he's still the War Machine. For his own safety, more than anything. Anyone could be in here, whether he wants to admit it or not.

And then, because he is still a considerate man with manners and decency, James Rhodes steps up to the door and knocks. The metal and wood make a thick _'ra-chk' _when they connect, his glove sliding across the door. He can tell by the way it sounds and holds up against his fist that the it's been reinforced. Recently, he assumes, like the rest of the building's upgrades.

Unexpectedly, the door opens.

If he's being honest, Rhodey simply hadn't thought it would be that easy. He gifts the camera with a suspicious warning look, frowning. There has to be someone watching it. Whoever it is, he is mostly hoping the look discourages them from shocking him. No doubt it would be painful, even with the little feeling left in his lower half.

_"Colonel Rhodes,"_ FRIDAY starts quietly. _"I'm afraid I won't be able to follow you inside."_

"Leaving me high and dry, FRI'."

_"I know," _she tells him dryly. _"I will add this to my record of disappointments since my conception."_

"Good deal." Rhodey says, and then he steps inside.

All he hears of her response is muffled crackling as he moves through the doorway. Then, there's nothing. For all intents and purposes, he has been forcefully ejected from the communications server. A little unusual, considering how constant it's been in the past couple years, but bearable.

The inside of the garage is as lackluster as the outside. There's a workbench with an air gun torn apart on top of it, paired with a silver wrench with a red handle. The small tool kit beside it is in a matching shade. The objects look brand new, unused, and rather expensive. Out of place, among the boxes gathering dust stacked in corners and on the tops of shelves. Disconnected from the old car engine left in one corner with cobwebs, and the tool chests that are practically falling apart with how rusty they are.

Without his consent, the image of an old Disney movie comes to life inside his mind. A bookshelf in muted colors and loaded with small details. Except for one bright, oddly smooth book with a short title. It looks out of place because it is. Because it is the one thing in the background that a character truly interacts with. A prop, instead of a moving set piece.

Putting all of his trust into Disney movies, Rhodey approaches the table. When his hand touches the wrench it's warm, buzzing with mechanical energy. He picks it up and is disappointed to find it lifts with ease, no resistance Not bolted to the table like a secret door handle. No shelving moving to reveal a dark passageway. So he opens the little storage chest beside it to reveal...

More tools, actually. Not a hidden tray of buttons and switches or a high tech scanner. Mentally chastising himself for letting the movie loving fanatic in his head get the best of him, Rhodey places the wrench in its rightful place and closes the box. Of course no one is going to actually use a random series of objects as a mechanism to get into their super-secret hideout. That would be stupid. Anyone could just saunter in and get their fingers into all kinds of things. In fact, only a movie loving young adult would go with something like that. He's not really sure what he was thinking.

"Right. Okay." Shaking his head, he turns his back to the table and tries again. "Moving on."

Unfortunately, but not shockingly, there's nothing of interest in sight. Just more boxes, with opaque white tape on the sides and neat handwriting in black market to label them. Movies, books, childhood toys, clothes, bolts, lightbulbs, electronics, _more _clothes. A wall mount on the far side of the room, with only one small handsaw hanging on it. The whole thing is covered in rust and he has no interest in touching it.

He tries moving the shelves first, uses the manual scan to see if any of them are hiding anything. Nothing. So he scans the walls and finds, again, nothing. Scans the engine in the corner. Nothing. The boxes? Nothing. Plays musical chairs with everything in the building to scan every inch of the floor and... Absolutely nothing.

Rhodey resigns himself to searching through all of these things by hand, by himself, and starts making his rounds. There are six boxes with articles of clothing in them, one box of movies, three boxes of various playthings, one box of playthings decidedly not for children, two boxes of books, three boxes of parts and/or electronics, and at least five boxes with labels too faded or torn to read.

Grabbing one of the boxes of spare parts and electronics, mostly because it is the closest thing to him, he returns to the workbench and uses his elbow to push aside the remains of the air gun with a sharp sigh and a frown. Rhodey settles the box on the table and goes to move the little tool box next. Halfway through going to lift it, he pauses with the realization he never secured the latch.

"A hazard waiting to happen." The umber skinned man says to himself.

Rhodey pushes the latch down until it gives a loud _'click!'_ and gives a nod of approval before turning back to the box. He pulls out a few items, scanning them and turning them in his hands for a good look. A VHS player that looks like it might actually still work. An old _Bop It! _that makes noises of death when he tries to turn it on a go a round. The twisting handle makes an obscene squishing sound.

Feeling unusually disappointed, Rhodey drops the toy back into the box and looks up at the ceiling in a bid to ask any potential god what he did to deserve this. The lamenting never leaves his throat and meets the air.

Looking up and away from his task shows that the roof is much further up than it was before. And he can only see _some _of the room now, because the walls have raised around him and the workbench in a perfect rectangle. Or, more accurately, the floor underneath of him is going down. Lowering into a seamless hatch with metal walls and no lighting. The room disappears more with each second as he and the table soundlessly descend.

"I knew it." Comes the phrase to express his triumphant surprise.

Light filters in my his feet after a couple minutes of going down, and the lower he goes the walls around him stop and he comes down from the ceiling. The room around him is a flat orange, the floor made of off-white tiles, the lights a bright white that come from tall panels in the wall. Straight ahead is a hallway closed off by glass doors, the same to his right. Each one has a blue scanner on the left-hand side. Turning shows that the other two walls are just that. Walls.

One has a monitor the size of his chest, with a dark set of buttons above it. The other has a whiteboard with a number of drawing and scribbles in two different colors and styles of writing. One familiar, the other not. Rhodey doesn't even bother doing a scan of the room.

This is, clearly, the work of Tony Stark. He can see it in the shape of the buttons by the monitor and the blue circle rotating in the center of the inactive screen. The lights embedded in the walls look like the ones he installed in Pepper's closet. The doors look like they were plucked directly out of his labs and placed here. The floor tiles are identical to the ones across the Avengers Compound, made for easy removal and cleaning and replacement. And if nothing else was going to tip him off, the messy scrawl on the whiteboard in black would have done him in.

Everything reeks of Tony. It makes his chest clench and his heart pick up pace.

Pushing that aside, ignoring the nagging thoughts and questions and issues and inconsistencies, Rhodey approaches the doorway he saw first. It doesn't budge when he tries to open it, and the scanner blinks red at him when he tries to interact with it. Tapping two fingers on his wrist, he watches the nanites release his hand and tries again with his bare skin. It blinks red again, and he taps his wrist to return the metal glove to his hand.

Rhodey writes that doorway off, for now, and approaches the one to his right. It slides open when he goes to raise his hand, giving way to a long hallway with two doors on either side and one at the end. He tries the door on the left with no luck. As soon as he turns for the other door, the one at the end of the hallway slides open. Inviting him. Leading him.

He is, of course, aware this could be a trap. A path leading to his demise or some other unfortunate events. That doesn't make him any less tempted to flip the metaphorical coin and go with it, but that would be irresponsible. So he weighs his options.

Is it possible that this is all a gag? That Tony is alive and here, on Earth, and is treating him like a lab mouse for a laugh? Most definitely. In fact, it seems disgustingly in character for him. But is it more likely that this is not Tony, and he's just being strung along for more nefarious purposes? Yes. Rhodey has to admit, that sounds like the more realistic scenario.

So Rhodey turns away from the newly opened door, and heads for the one he came through. Only for it to quickly shut in his face, denying his retreat.

_"I apologize, James, but I'm going to need you to follow the marked path." _The voice makes him jump, looking around. On cue, the scanner located beside the open doorway blinks blue at him. _"Continue at your leisure."_

The voice has no body or physical presence. Low, with a smooth cadence, and the rough touch of an accent at the end of each word. Rhodey doesn't recognize it at all. None of this gives him much comfort, but he'll take these things as they come. Not like he has much of an choice in the matter. Rhodey decides to stop weighing his options, taps his neck twice to have the nanites pull over the back of his head and hide away his features.

_"I can assure you, that is unnecessary." _The female voice informs him.

Ignoring her, Rhodey marches across the hall and through the doorway. The room is painted the same shade of orange as the first room. Unlike the aforementioned room, though, there's already someone here.

Not who he wanted, or even close to anything he expected, but a person nonetheless. A young man, with a head of messy brunette hair and lightly tanned skin, reclining in a chair with castors on the legs. He has one leg on the other, ankle on his knee, and an old Gameboy in his hand. Whoever he is and whatever he's playing, he's immersed enough that he doesn't even acknowledge Rhodey. Just keeps pressing buttons and staring at the dimly lit screen.

Behind him, inside a glass case mounted on the wall, is what really gives him pause. A suit of Stark design, blue and silver metal in the form of a person. A _female _person, judging by the curves in the torso. It stares back at him with dark, empty eyes.

"It's not finished." The young man in the chair tells him, finally looking up.

Rhodey's brain isn't moving fast enough to process the sight in front of him, so all he can come up with is a confused: "What?"

"The suit." The boy sighs and speaks as if he's talking to a child, putting the game in his lap. "It was never finished. Operates on a limited power supply, so it's charging."

"Charging." He repeats.

Now the brunette teen looks at him like he's stupid, brows furrowing over brown eyes. "Yes."

"Like a phone." Rhodey clarifies, just to be sure.

"If you want to make that comparison, I guess." He snorts, rolls his eyes, looks to the suit. "I wouldn't, but that's me."

The dots are connecting slowly but surely, when the door behind him opens again. Rhodey turns and his heart falls to his feet. His throat closes and his eyes burn. This isn't what he thought he was going to find. It's not what, or who, he was hoping to find.

"It's the last suit Tony made." Her voice soft and comforting, heavy with the weight of her words.

_"The Mark XLIX, otherwise known as the Rescue Armor, was built as a protective measure for Miss Potts in the event of hostile engagement." _The disembodied voice informs him. _"It was deployed when FRIDAY and, subsequently, myself were made aware of the attack in Wakanda."_

Voice wet with the growing sting in his eyes, Rhodey poses his next question. "And who are you?"

_"JOCASTA."_

Behind him, the young man expands on that. "Just One Cyber Associate Seeking To Assist."

Rhodey should turn around to address him, as is appropriate in these situations, but he can't. He can't bear to look away from the woman in front of him. Fair skin with fading freckles along the bridge of a straight nose. Large green-blue almond eyes under thin brows, a small, thin lipped smile. Ginger hair tumbling over sharp shoulders, tall frame accentuated by the length of her locks having gone uncut and the black heels on her feet.

"And who is he?"

Pepper Potts, alive and unsnapped and _smiling _at him like no time has passed, grants him an answer. "Harley Keener."

"I already know who you are." The teen, Harley, informs him briskly. "You know you're like, all over the news."

"Yeah." Rhodey responds, dazed, reaching up to press one metal palm to the center of his chest.

The nanites of his suit crawl away from his face and fingers and chest. They move around to his back and go down from there, consolidating into the metal supports around his calves. Rhodey urges his body to move, when they come to a stop and stabilize him on the floor. His limbs refuse the order, not even acknowledging the signals from his brain. It's like he's been turned to stone by shock. Or the messages from his brain to his body are delayed.

"Pepper," Rhodey starts, and immediately stops. He doesn't know what to say. The words pull away from his tongue and die in the air.

"You don't need to say it." Pepper says.

Rhodey tries to breathe, but it catches before it hits his lungs. When he tries to release the air it comes out in a sob, choked off at the end. All the self-control in the world can't stop the tears that leak from his eyes. They lick burning hot paths down his cheeks and fall to the floor, a soft sound that feels far away. He tries to stop, he really does, but his shoulders shake and his lungs hurt and the saliva builds in his mouth like he might be sick.

Taking the step he can't force his body to take, Pepper's heels click across the floor. Her arms come around him in a grip that feels crushing, and her forehead hits his shoulder. Rhodey is distantly aware that the material of his shirt is getting damp where her face hits it. He brings his thick arms up to wrap around her upper back, pulling her to him and shuddering out what he hopes is a noise of relief when she doesn't crumble under his hands like a sick trick of his eyes and imagination.

The world stops like that, for a moment and only that, centered around a small town with three people trying to swallow two years of grief together. They don't know, won't know for hours, that everything else is still changing outside of the hidden laboratory. They're clueless to the recordings being reviewed in another country, full of questions and answers and suffocating sorrow.

For just that moment, Rhodey thinks things could go back to being okay.


	12. Constructive

** _New York City, New York  
_ ** _2018_

The city is loud with discontent and confusion, left fumbling for a grip on stability from the recent attack. Pavement in the streets is cracked and traffic lights, lamp poles, trees, and various other fixtures have been uprooted. All of it scattered for blocks in the wake of their resident heroes fighting off new adversaries. News stories of the alien craft that hovered over the skyline play on repeat, broken up only by images of the aliens themselves facing off against some of the Avengers. Featuring, of course, a couple magicians.

Those same images and clips of videos cycle endlessly on every news station in the country. Reminders that they aren't, never were, and never will be the only beings in this, or any other, universe. The first invasion in New York had confirmed it, beyond a doubt, but regular people had been able to go back to life as scheduled when it ended. There was a conflict, and a resolution. A solid ending to the event. They don't have that luxury, this time. The last images on the screens are always Spiderman, and Iron Man in tow, being hefted away from them. Everything is quiet, but unsure.

No one knows it yet, but those images will be the last anyone sees of Peter Parker, and Tony Stark, for years.

But that is a story for the future, for a few years from now. For when the world is trying to recapture some of what it used to have and governments are grasping at reform and repair. A story for when everyone is dealing with acceptance slipping through their fingers, and life blurring by them. One for when there is a sure ending to the story, and the fifty percent of them left have some sort of understanding of what's happened.

This part of the story takes place years before any of that, before anyone could have begun to fully understand what was happening around them.

Over the city, somewhere just past the former Avengers Tower undergoing renovations for the buyer, a case of light blue metal moves through the sky. It maneuvers around buildings and some number of feet above the cars and people wandering the streets, largely unnoticed. Everyone is too busy clambering for supplies and routes out of the city to properly account for it. All the hubbub makes for a clean and unproblematic path to its destination.

Less than a block away stands a building, and in front of that building stands a woman ready to knock on the door. The inhabitant - singular, in only an hour's time, when the Incident happens - of 177A Bleecker Street remains unaware of her presence, and both of them are unaware of the streak of blue hurtling through the air toward their location at approximately 85 miles per hour. Her knuckles graze the wood, a rasping sound of hesitation. The case of metal shifts as it nosedives, disconnecting into seven pieces that expand and click into place.

When Wong opens the door, there's no one there. A gust of wind makes his brown garb billow, bringing life to the light, woven fabric. He looks around, frowns, rubs at his temples, and shuts the door. There's too much happening around them, and not, to dwell on a potentially imaginary knock on the door. Already six blocks away and counting, the case has wrapped itself around the woman and is molding to her form, sharp metallic snapping sounds ringing in her ears as it all settles into place.

Pepper Potts blinks once, twice, thrice to get her bearings and in front of her eyes a display comes to life. She can see the city passing around her, beneath her as she rises and soars through the air. It's not unfamiliar. She's had a pristinely manicured hand in the whole 'superhero adventure' story line throughout her years with Tony. But it's still disorienting, and she finds herself grappling for control over the suit. It doesn't give way to her movements, stiff metal alloy keeping her arms and legs locked into place and only allowing her to look around.

Is this Tony? Is something _more _happening, again?

"FRIDAY?" She questions the suit, looking over the vitals - _her _vitals, heart rate just above normal - and information cycling in the upper left of her sight.

_"Rescue Protocol is engaged."_ That voice is _not _FRIDAY. It's too deep, the accent not lilted enough, the words without the joking edge that her familiar artificial intelligence carries. _"You are being given an all-expense paid vacation getaway."_

If nothing else, Pepper can be absolutely unquestionably sure that this is still somehow Tony's doing. No one else would put such a sense of humor into what should be an efficient helper. It's... Reassuring. "And where is the destination of my imposed sabbatical?"

_"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to divulge that information at this time, Ms. Potts."_

Of course not. The suit obviously knows who she is, so giving her access code isn't going to help. She's along for the ride, whether she likes it or not. Fighting it isn't going to help. "Alright."

_"You may call me JOCASTA."_

"I didn't ask." Pepper says with a light, amused laugh.

_"But you would have." _She - JOCASTA - says with an air of certainty.

Pepper can't really refute that. So she looks around again, taking in the scenery as it goes. They're well past the city now, somewhere above a road that she doesn't recognize. The navigator indicates that they're going West. There's a number of places she could be getting carted off to, and their path right now is too vague to really make a decent go of guessing where exactly they're going.

Her mind wanders as her gaze falls to the road and the few cars on it. _Rescue Protocol. _It doesn't sound good, Pepper decides. It's pretty clear what it's all related to, at least. The aliens that fell into their laps and whatever is happening in Wakanda. Whatever the remaining Avengers and Co. left to face. She doesn't know much. Only what Rhodey relayed to her in the haste of his phone call, quick words smeared with urgency as he told her to get to Bleeker Street. Just in case, because she would be safe.

She wonders where Tony is taking her, what he's thinking, where he is.

_"Would you like some tunes to occupy your ride?"_

"Yes." Pepper replies automatically, though she knows it won't stop her thoughts from falling back to him.

Zeppelin comes through the speakers and winds through her ears and she laughs. She doesn't even really _like _Heartbreaker. Tony doesn't even really like it. She almost tells JOCASTA to turn it off. But when she closes her eyes and tries to think, she can practically hear Tony singing along. Loud and off-key, running an electric drill to the beat of the song. Pepper lets it play, and finds herself humming along.

** _Rose Hill, Tennessee  
_ ** _2018_

"How long has this been here?"

"I don't know." The boy with the fluffly mess of hair and defiant eyes shrugs, spinning his chair. "A couple years."

"A couple years."

Pepper leans back in her seat, looking around for the thousandth time. The tall walls and thin lights embedded in them stare back, unmoving. She can't believe this underground hideaway has been here for two years - give or take - without her knowledge. She isn't sure when Tony found the time to come down here, much less did all of this work without tipping her off. He's horrible with keeping secrets like this. He gives all of his gifts early, and forgets the days of holidays and sends presents a month in advance because he's too excited to just check. All of his projects are highlighted to her while they're curled under the sheets, or sharing a cup of coffee, or going over paperwork with their feet propped up on the table.

The sheer scale of this project gets to her. The remodel of the shed to outfit it with reinforced walls and thick one-way windows, cameras and defense systems. The actual part that is under the earth is only one level, but it's large. Four bedrooms with two beds in each, a living space and kitchen, two bathrooms, three labs each with observations areas, and one room with a table and wall that the Mark XLIX has taken a spot on.

Whatever this was in preparation for, it's clear Tony wasn't planning on coming here alone. There are enough food and water supplies here to last for... Well, okay, she isn't sure how long. It's probably dependent on how many people actually came to call this place home.

"Does anyone else know?" Pepper asks finally.

Harley scoffs as if the notion that he can't keep a secret is offensive. "No."

"You're sure?"

"Do I look unsure?" The young boy rolls his eyes, making it a full-body movement where his head tilts and his shoulders roll. "Just because I'm not as old as you are doesn't make me an idiot."

His obvious annoyance does nothing to quiet the questions rolling through her mind or displace any of her concerns. "You're right."

"I _know_ I'm right." Harley sneers and turns away from her, sneakers squeaking on the tile.

Pepper hasn't even been here an hour, yet. In that time they've migrated from the entry room to the one containing the Rescue suit. On the table in front of her is a holographic display, a floor plan for the secure facility. It features two vaguely people-shaped entities highlighted in blue, one staying still and the other crossing the room. Harley finally comes to a stop, facing the aforementioned suit. Thankfully, this means the dreadful squeaking of rubber against the floor stops as well.

If she's being honest, totally and fully honest, Pepper isn't quite sure yet how to handle the boy in question. She's not bad with kids, quite the opposite when it comes to the younger ones, but her experience with pre-teens and above is limited.

A lot - most - of her time and life have been centered around work. Building herself and her career and, after meeting Tony, assisting with and running Stark Industries. Interactions with kids over the recent years have been limited to galas and various do-good projects and organizations. It's not that she's never wanted to, or thought about, having kids. In fact, years of meticulous planning and considerations have led her to decide she wants two. Recent years have raised many dreams and roads of imagination featuring kids with messy brunette hair. His chin and wide grin just underneath her eyes and nose.

"It's insulting." Harley mutters, annoyed.

Pepper isn't really listening, but she's fairly sure he's mostly talking to himself regardless. "Of course."

"_Of course."_ He raises his voice to mock her, crossing his arms and glowering at the suit as if she's still in it. "Insinuating I can't keep a secret."

"Absolutely."

Harley cocks his head to eye her over his shoulder. She's still staring at the layout of the base, one hand resting on the table and the other rotating the display. "I mean Tony, sure, I get that."

"Yes, yes."

"He has a big mouth."

"Yes."

"And an even bigger head." There's a light hum of agreement. Harley mimics the noise of assent, obnoxiously high pitched. "You're not even listening."

Pepper finally looks up at him, slim brows rising on her head. "I can see why he likes you."

"Well I don't see why he likes you." Harley scowls at the amusement on her features, looking away again. "Why are you here, anyway?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." She admits.

"Well I can't." The boy snips defensively. "So you can, like, go now. See you never."

Shrugging, Pepper taps a nail on the tabletop. "You said this has been here two years?"

"Do you have comprehension problems?"

"This is a lot to do in two years." She continues, ignoring his outburst.

"We worked fast."

"Where did it all come from?"

Harley sighs long and hard, as if this is a stupid question to be asking. It isn't, though. Pepper runs Stark Industries. She knows where everything - money, supplies, resources in general - goes. Even Tony's personal finances and purchases are usually ran by her. Not because Tony doesn't have a good understanding of the proper usage of funds but he's always been fond of unnecessary purchases in the spur of the moment. Things like toasters he doesn't need and giant stuffed animals that no one could possibly have any use for in any realistic scenario.

And while she isn't capable of remembering _everything_, she's sure she would remember this amount of money and materials going through her fingers. She doesn't, but it's here anyway.

"Tony recycled what was left of that garish house he had on the cliff." Harley tells her when he seems to get over how much this question has, apparently, inconvenienced him. And then, as if she really needs him to specify: "The one that got totally fuckin' blown up on the news."

Pepper nods, and goes quiet again while she thinks. It makes sense, she decides. There was plenty that was salvageable in the lower levels, certainly enough materials to at least get them started here. Not enough to finish this whole place out, of course. She's sure Tony must have pulled this off somewhere between the additions made to the new Avenger's Facility and the Accords. There was so much going on, it wouldn't have taken much effort to move things around without someone noticing.

For a moment she wonders if Happy knows, but it doesn't seem likely. He's a good man. Loyal, reliable, caring, respectful. As much as Pepper loves him - and she does, like he's her own flesh and blood - she can admit he's not necessarily the sharpest tool in the shed. If this was something Tony wanted to keep a secret - and it is, clearly - then telling Happy probably wouldn't have been very helpful to the cause.

"JOCASTA." Harley gets fed up with the silence before she does, inclining his head to look at the ceiling. "Why is she here?"

If not for the situation at hand, Pepper might be just a little offended at his clear dislike - and, if she had to guess, distrust - of her. But this is, as she learned upon her arrival, his home and his rotting shed and _his _secret underground playground. So she lets it slide, for now.

_"Ms. Potts has been transported here for her safety." _The disembodied voice informs them lowly.

"Safety." He repeats, squinting.

_"Yes, Harley. I believe this word is included in your vocabulary, but if necessary I can provide a textbook definition for your reference."_

"You're too sassy." Harley states this as he looks down and back to the suit, frown still set on his lips.

Almost innocently, JOCASTA replies: _"I'm only assisting you in furthering your learning."_

"I don't need a tutor." The words come out in a whine.

_"Seeing as I am not being compensated for my efforts, I do not believe I classify as a proper tutor."_

"Your compensation is all of this quality time together." Pepper puts in dryly, and earns disgruntled look from her younger companion. He looks very much like she just stole his line. "I'd say it qualifies."

"Well you said it," Harley huffs.

It sounds just like something Tony would say, comes out with the same _'it's true but I know you're mocking me and I don't care because I know it's true' _lilt. He even looks the part, turning to face her and placing his hands on his hips. So Pepper laughs, because of course she's caught in some revolving door of intelligent and sassy boys with personality issues. He doesn't think it's funny if the look on his face is any indication, and that's where the similarities end. Where Tony would chime in with sharp jokes and quick remarks, Harley resorts to childish indigence.

As funny as it all is, it reminds her that he's just that: a child. A boy. He's never seen what Tony has, has no idea what's lurking outside of these carefully polished walls.

Neither does Pepper, but she doesn't know that yet.

_**Rose Hill, Tennessee  
**2019_

Harley knows, now, what awaits them outside of the facility. Death and devastation. Loss and mourning. Half of a world, half of a universe, an even slice down the middle of all life in and of itself. There's nothing for him above the ground anymore.

Even before the Incident, Harley had spent a lot of his time down here. His mother and his sister never knew what was going on, only that _the _Tony Stark was occasionally dropping by their town to fund local projects for the young adults in the area. Quietly sponsoring growth in their small community as a front for all of this. It had started with modified potato shooting guns and then turned into multiple questionably aware home appliances before it escalated to a full-blown renovation and hidden project.

In the two years they had spent building this place, Harley had never asked why Tony thought it was necessary. He always figured it had something to do with the way he double-checked around every corner and monitored everything personally. The root of it all embedded somewhere in the moments where his hands would shake and his shoulders would seize up and his eyes would go glassy.

But it had never felt right to ask, and the timing never worked. So he never did. And now, sitting here in the communal living area, he wonders if Tony always knew it would come to something like this.

None of it matters. Harley knows that. The knowledge wouldn't have stopped any of this, and it wouldn't justify what's happening around them. It wouldn't have influenced the universe, or fate, or _what-the-fuck-ever _to spare his mother or his sister. Harley is all that's left now, and he knows that's just something he has to accept. He's smart enough to know this is just what it is, whether he enjoys spending all of his time brooding underground with a woman he hardly knows or not.

He doesn't enjoy it, for the record.

It's nothing against Pepper personally. Not really. She's decent enough. She has a soft smile and kind eyes and she tries to spend their time together in healthier ways than he would on his own. But he doesn't _know _her. He knows who she is. Or was, he supposes, because none of them are really who they were last year. The Incident ensured that. She's the head of Stark Industries, and she's supposed to be the wife of Tony Stark someday. He knows she prefers dark chocolate to any other sweets, and that her hair color is natural, and that when she was a kid she fell off of her bike and she still has a scar on her knee from it, and that she once was exposed to a virus that turned out to be much more than just that.

What he hadn't read in the papers before Tony had told him. The man liked to talk, and she was a popular topic. Harley knows from the way he spoke of her, the tone in which he told her his name, that he loves her. Or maybe loved.

Pepper is holding onto hope that he's alive, but Harley doesn't really see that as practical. He had been entrenched in the conflict. Even if he hadn't, there's a good chance the Incident took him from the world too. It's not cynicism, it's being realistic. Unfortunate, but realistic.

"Do you want lunch?"

"No."

Harley doesn't want anything other than to be left alone. He doesn't want lunch or Pepper's kind words or the sad way she looks at him when she mistakenly thinks he isn't paying attention. He just wants her to go away.

"You skipped breakfast." Pepper chides lightly, from the kitchen. It's an open space connected to the living block, fully equipped for whatever they could want or need. "Not eating will make you sick."

"I said I'm not hungry."

"You said 'no' actually."

Harley whips his head to face her as he snaps his response. "And what about '_no' _doesn't get through your thick skull?"

Before she can give him one of those quietly hurt looks his mother used to flash him, Harley looks back to the Gameboy in his hands and aggressively pushes his thumbs into the buttons. He knows she doesn't deserve his ire, but he finds himself angry with her nonetheless. Behind him he can hear the distinct _'click!' _of the oven turning off and a plate being made. The sound that follows is softer, socks no the tiles as she pads her way to him. She's abandoned her heels in favor of comfort for lounging purposes.

Expecting to be reprimanded, the brunette boy hunches his shoulders and tries to sink into the couch. The sharp words never come, though. In their place is the _'clink' _of a plate being sat on the table, and then Pepper settles herself into one of the seats to his side and pulls her feet up onto the edge. Harley glances up to see her picking at a grilled cheese. On the table is one for him, even though he refused it.

Harley can't help but notice that hers is a light golden brown and his is a little burnt and crispy. Exactly the way he likes it. A little bit of remorse seeps into his bones at the sight. In the months they've been together here, she's never once gotten short with him or treated him badly. Never let him catch her looking downtrodden or mused at him about their situation or what's happening outside.

From the table the grilled cheese taunts him. Practically mocks him for his unwarranted outbursts and harsh approaches toward Pepper.

Trying to look spiteful, Harley reaches and picks up the place to nibble at the darkened crust of his sandwich. It's cheesy perfection wrapped in still-warm bread that crunches pleasantly in his mouth. Truthfully, he hadn't realized how hungry he was until the cheese touched his tongue and his tastebuds squealed with delight. He practically inhales his lunch after that, leaving crumbs on his shirt that he tries to carefully pluck off and put on the plate. It's a failed mission, mostly, but at least he tries.

"Thanks." Harley mutters once he's done, carefully returning the plate to the table. Pepper only hums in response as she eats her own food, drawn into her own thoughts.

There's no telling what she's thinking about. She never shares her mental tangents with him or poses her existential questions aloud. To be fair, Harley doesn't either. Quite frankly, he tries to think of nothing at all outside of tinkering with the 'toys' Tony left for them and watching the cameras and radar systems put in place by JOCASTA. There's too much to process, and he isn't sure how to even start with it.

"How long are you staying down here?" Harley inquires tentatively as she's settling her plate on the table.

It catches her off guard and she pauses, pushing the few locks of hair that have escaped her low bun behind her ear. "What?"

"I mean," he starts and stops to collect his thoughts, tries not to fidget in his seat. "It's over, right? You could go home."

"I could." Pepper agrees, and that's all she offers.

"Why don't you?" Presses Harley, dropping his gaming device onto his knees.

After a long moment of consideration, green eyes meet brown. "Do you want me to?"

Harley isn't sure how to answer that. _Does _he want her to go?

Surely, she has things to get back to. At least some people left out there looking for her. They know from the news reports that some of the Avengers are still around. She probably has family somewhere, planning her funeral too soon. A job, a business, things she could do and people she could help with the resources she has. She could be - probably wants to be - using more advanced Stark technology to locate her missing-but-potentially-dead future husband.

There's plenty she has to go back for, plenty she has to do. Harley knows that, and he's sure she does too. He hates her a little for it, in the darkest parts of his thoughts. Hates that he has nothing and she still has something to go back to. She could leave, she has every right, every reason, to leave.

And Harley would be alone. It's not the same as being left alone, when they're in this space. Right now she's here, he knows she's here, even when they aren't physically in the same room or he's deemed her worthy of the silent treatment. As annoying as the constant monitoring and company can be, it's reassuring to know he has someone other than an artificial intelligence to be with. JOCASTA is great, she's fine company, but she's not _real _in the way Pepper is. She's not real in the way everything falling around the world is, and she can't see that or sympathize with it or grasp the impact of what's happened beyond the reasoning and numbers.

So she could go home, and it would just be Harley. Harley and JOCASTA and an empty facility full of advanced technology and shit he doesn't really know what to do with now that it's finished and he's on his own. Just Harley and his dingy shed and silent house and empty walls.

Harley doesn't say 'no' this time, but he doesn't have to.


	13. Disquieting

**Orbit of Aakon  
**_2020_

The quiet is something Tony will never get used to, no matter how many months or years they spend together up here.

Nebula knows this because he is _always _making some form of noise. Chattering aimlessly to her, thoughts spilling from his brain to his mouth and pooling around them as they fall from his lips. Meaningless small talk and dark topics with light tones. Working on something - for his suit, for the ship, for her body - and making entirely too much of a commotion with tools that, at the beginning of their journey, were totally unfamiliar to him. It hadn't taken him long to learn how to use them, or anything else on the ship. As much as she wants to give him shit, Tony is smart. Intuitive. Adaptive.

When they were doing work on the engine and her arm got zapped out of commission, it had only taken him a couple hours to figure out how to work with her haphazardly thrown together pieces and put her back in working order. And get rid of the tic in her wrist, where the metal kept catching. He had learned how to read the monitors in only a few months. Which would be less impressive if they weren't in a totally alien language and far more advanced than any terran technology. It had taken him only a day to figure out how to work the tools strewn around the ship. A few weeks to figure out, and promptly organize, all of the different power cores and weapons and essentially everything else he came across.

Unless it comes to being _quiet_. And Nebula would really, for one moment in the two years and two months - twenty six months altogether, crammed in this ship - like him to be quiet. For more than a few moments during the colder hours where everything that's wrong strikes them, or when he's sleeping without getting any rest.

Even now, an entire room away, she can hear him talking. To that _stupid _helmet making _stupid _recordings for _stupid _people who are probably dead or will never hear it _anyway _because his head is like a briefcase full of literal fecal matter and he can't help but display how insane he is and try to _infect her _with it like some kind of airborne virus put out through his words. Nebula doesn't get it and normally she would be able to ignore it, or brush it off, but today it grates on her. Pinches at sensitive spots she didn't know she had until just now. Brushing against healed wounds that somehow still feel incredibly tender.

She can't take it. Nebula brings her hands up only to drag them down her face, one lukewarm and the other cold. In the other room, Tony's word are unintelligible. Just a steady stream of vocal cues in his, unfortunately, familiar voice. Despite not being able to make out the words, it's driving her out of her mind. He's been talking - to _himself _\- for at least an hour, though she hasn't kept track of the time.

Something clatters, like it's been dropped, and she can definitely make out almost every curse that tumbles out of his throat. It's the final straw.

Nebula jerks up from her seat like a marionette, limbs stiff from having sat so still for so long. Her boots smack loudly against the floor, emphasized by the near silence of the Benatar. There's no hum of movement and life, or refrigeration units, or music. All of the automatic systems have shut down due to not having enough power to run them. The repairs they've made are sustaining the ship, and them, but it's only a temporary solution. The power cells weren't meant to push through a whole ship, supplying energy to oxygen generations and artificial gravity simulators and temperature regulation and general life support.

They have six months, maybe a little longer, before one (if not all) of the cells collapse and cause an explosion that will kill them without question. Nebula knows that, and she knows Tony does too. It's why he tinkers so often, disassembling anything he can find and trying to build something substantial to save them. Trying to do what, ultimately, is impossible. One year before the convertor fails, because it hasn't been replaced in too long. Only a few months longer than that before everything starts to fail, because the ship hasn't moved or been properly maintained and repaired.

They'll die up here, and Nebula has accepted that even if Tony can't. Whatever hope - as disgusting and misplaced as that word is - that was left after Thanos left them on Titan melted away after their first year stranded out here.

So they'll die up here, and Nebula is okay with that. But she _doesn't _want to die listening to Tony Stark gabbing to an inanimate object.

Using her metal arm, she yanks angrily at the door to the room the man of the hour has settled himself into. He's hunched over the table, back to her, and she can just make out the Iron Man helmet sitting to his left. When the ungodly sound of the metal door scraping on the floor catches Tony's attention he goes still, babbling cut off mid-sentence. Almost sheepishly, he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at her.

"I'm going to destroy it." Nebula informs him briskly, stepping forward. "I am serious this time."

"You were serious last time." Tony scoffs in return, but he still doesn't turn toward her. Instead he directs a question to his helmet and the light it's projecting fades. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Well," she doesn't have an argument for that. "That was... an intimidation tactic. Clearly you did not take away what you should have from our previous interaction."

He snorts and shifts his shoulders, arms and hands still hidden in front of him. "Are we in a time loop? Is this _Groundhog Day_ but in space? Am I Bill Murray?"

"This is not your earth devouring hog celebration ceremony." Nebula isn't sure what Groundhog Day is nor does she care. Knowing Tony, it could very well be a fake thing made up simply to bamboozle her. She fell for it with the _Fruit Loops _a week ago, she's sly to his tricks now. "And if you are under the impression of being someone else, then I clearly have not been monitoring your mental stability well enough."

"Aw," Tony grins at her cheekily. "You monitor my mental state? Honey, I'm flattered."

Nebula finds herself caught, for a moment, unsure of whether or not he's fully joking. Of course she monitors his mental health. "Only to ensure you are not a danger to myself."

"Sounds like you're only trying to convince yourself." Tony sing-songs at her lightly.

"Irrelevant -"

"Not really -"

Glowering at him, she aims her metal finger at him in warning. "You are being deliberately avoidant."

"More like thinking about the important parts of what you just said." Tony shrugs, but is careful not to let the movement turn him toward her. "Whatever you prefer, though."

He's acting odd. Nebula hates that she notices this. She really does. But it's unavoidable, becoming familiar, when they've spent all this time cooped up together. Learning about each other. Bonding, as the human would call it. If anyone were to ask, she would adamantly deny any fondness toward him. In reality, it's a little more complicated. Tony Stark is not the man she envisioned him to be, not the man who stopped the invasion on Earth years ago. She's not sure he ever was that man, if that image wasn't a total fallacy built by her father's narrative.

"What's wrong with you?" Nebula creeps closer, noting the way he angles his torso to keep her at his back. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing!" Tony reassures her airily, and she imagines if his hand were free it would be flapping at her. "Seriously, you're hovering. I thought we talked about personal space, okay, I know these concepts can be hard to grasp but I'm going to need you to respect my human need for a little bit of separation."

Doing what is undoubtedly her best impersonation of him, Nebula cocks her head to the side and narrows her dark eyes. "Bullshit." He sputters a laugh that she could swear sounds nervous. "What are you hiding?"

Tony tries to sidestep her as she approaches, repeating himself. "Nothing! Honestly! You don't _trust _me?"

"No." Nebula confirms unnecessarily.

"Ouch." He grimaces at her. "You know -"

She can't bear to listen to him blow shit out of his mouth anymore, so Nebula advances again. Tony makes a noise of offense when she goes to grab his arm, slipping away by a fraction of an inch. She follows, steady and menacing, and he tries to slide away again. His hip bumps the table and the mask settled on it shifts. Tony freezes to look at it, blind panic in his expression. It's painful to see the way he clings to the remains of his suit after all this time. To know that, somehow, he still thinks they can change this.

Nebula shouldn't take advantage of this moment of distraction. It's wrong, and a little insensitive. She _shouldn't _but she does. Her body reacts with her brain falling behind, arms snapping out and hands taking a firm hold on his arms. Metal fingers curl into the fabric of his borrowed shirt and pull to twist him around. Tony barely has time to resist before her flesh hand is going for his hands, slapping them apart.

"Wait -"

In his hands, cupped to protect it, is a glass tray. And inside of that, an inky black substance. _Not a substance, _Nebula thinks as a rush of cold runs through her spine, _a symbiote__. _A rare flash of fear makes its way through her system and she raises her metal hand to, more roughly than intended, yank his arm out so that he's holding it over the table.

"Careful!"

"Drop it!" She commands. He doesn't, staring at her in surprise still. "Drop it now -"

"Calm down -"

"That thing will _kill _you -"

"It's stable!" Tony shouts at her, his empty hand coming to her shoulder. "I tested it!" When her grip slackens in surprise, he wrenches his wrist from her grasp. The other, she's dimly shocked to find, stays on her shoulder.

"You _tested _it?" Nebula spits, drawing away from his touch. Her gaze doesn't stray from the symbiote, currently throwing itself around in what she can only guess is excitement.

"Of course I tested it." His words cause the cold in her spine to migrate to her chest.

"You _moron." _She doesn't know how to convey to him just how horrifying that is. "You're a _lunatic_."

Flabbergasted, the brunette rubs at his wrist. "Says the girl who nearly broke my wrist a second ago."

"With good reason." The response is tart and she only looks at him for a moment before observing the thing in his hand again. "You don't even know what you're playing with."

"I'm not _playing._" Tony practically whines and she really doubts his words. "Experimenting -"

"On something alien to you -"

"Oh come _on _you cannot -"

"And dangerous -"

"It's been here almost the whole time; it's not dangerous -"

Something clicks much later than it should as the gears in Nebula's head recover from the ice left on them from her shock. The Kariteth Spaceport. Haze Mancer. Two years stuck in the orbit of Aakon.

"_You._"

Nebula advances on him, jaw tight and teeth bared and dark eyes seeming like an abyss of rage. Anger has always come easy to her, they both know that. It's what she's always known, it's what has always worked for her. When she was with the Guardians, and after, and in these two years with him, she's gotten better. Her outbursts are more bark than bite, and tired over truly threatening. This is neither of those things. This is pure, unadulterated, violent _fury._

She could kill him. She really could. It seriously crosses her mind and she considers literally locking her hands around his throat and throttling him, or sending him out into space, or shooting him straight through the chest - or maybe through the wound she healed, to get poetic about it. Tony would probably appreciate that in his dying moments, Nebula is sure of it.

"Okay, now, listen," Tony backs away from her with one finger raised and the symbiote stubbornly clutched in his other hand. "What have I said about using your words? Let's talk about it, Blue -"

"You want me to use my words?" Nebula interrupts sharply, taking slow steps closer to mirror his retreat. "I'll use my _words,_ Tony." Normally, her using his name would be a sign of growth. In this moment, it's condescending and spiteful. "You are an _inconceivably _stupid human genius and I should _eviscerate _you where you stand for getting us _stranded _here with that _parasite_."

"That's a good start." The man is forced to come to a stop when his heel touches the wall. "So now it's my turn -"

"Your turn ended when you nearly killed us by -" Nebula pauses to nearly growl in her frustration as she corners him. "_Playing _with a symbiote."

"Symbiote?" Tony glances at the rancorous thing in his hand, thoughtful.

Refusing to even start hearing him out, she sharply throws out her metal arm. Palm up, waiting, while her other hand stays in a tight fist. "Yes. Hand it over."

"Hold on a minute."

"No."

"This symbiote could be our way out of here."

"It's not!" Nebula shouts, and there's a frenzied look in her eyes he doesn't recognize. It crawls through the flesh and bones and muscle in her body that isn't artificial. Panic. Fear. "It will kill us."

Tony looks frustrated. _Finally. _His calm attempts at being rational are worse than anything else, his inability to grasp what he's messing around with grates at her. "We're going to die out here if we don't do something anyway!"

It's true. They're on limited time. Borrowed hours of, she'll admit, genius craftsmanship and rigging. Nebula knows they won't be able to survive out here forever. If a boulder doesn't crush them like an egg, or damage one of the ports, or send them spiraling out of control, their lack of food will. The reserve power running out will. The temporary repairs eventually failing will. The cold when they lose all heating systems will. Nebula knows it's inevitable, and she's faced death a thousand times, but...

"Not like that." She tells him. "I'd rather suffocate in the reaches of space."

"I wouldn't."

They're at a standstill. Tony is never going to agree with her. In fact, if she were to educate him on the symbiote he would likely only be more inclined toward whatever insane idea he's been building on in their time out here. And if he isn't going to give it up willingly, she has no qualms about taking it with force.

Nebula's flesh hand strikes out for the fabric of his shirt to lock him in place, and he reacts with a speed that surprises her. His arm raises to knock into hers, bone on bone, and when she takes a moment to process this he ducks away to the side. Their time stuck out here has taken its toll on both of them and frankly, she was expecting Tony to be a lot more worn out. Maybe he's on to something, with all of the pacing and moving things around and organizing and arranging, but that's something to dwell on later.

When there isn't a life leeching organism in the same room as her, perhaps. Turning, Nebula goes for him again. This time it's her metal hand that reaches out, and he only manages to avoid it by stumbling backward so quickly he nearly falls on his ass. Tony recovers his footing and moves away again, putting the table between them. Again, she contemplates just putting him out of his misery earlier than intended. She doesn't, of course, giving him a hard stare and slamming her metal hand on the top of the surface separating them to get his attention.

"This is not a game -" Nebula doesn't get more than those five words out before she's cut off.

Tony raises his free hand and within seconds, small chunks of smooth metal are flying through the air. As the last of his nanites wrap around her hand and lock into the table, Nebula finds herself distantly impressed. She didn't think he'd been able to repair any after the almost-meat-grinder incident in the oxygen convertor. Still, he must know there aren't enough to actually keep her there. Her arm is much stronger than the handful of his inventions left. This is only going to stall her for a minute, maybe two.

"It's our lives." He says, when he's sure she's paused to give him her recognition. "I'm not okay with just dying out here. I don't know how the hell you are."

"I never said I was." Nebula informs him.

Shaking his head, Tony scoffs. "You didn't have to."

"This can be done the easy way, or the hard way."

"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way." The correction is a mindless thing at her attempt to mock him through his attempts at educating her on popular Earth culture and television tropes.

"_Whatever_." Nebula sneers at him.

"Stop being so hardheaded!" Tony snaps, throwing his empty hand up in his exasperation.

Quick as a whip comes her retort. "Stop being so ignorant."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He quirks a brow. "Are ignorance and resigning yourself to a totally anticlimactic interstellar death the same thing now? Is this another murderous alien thing?"

"When you mistake warnings for encouragements, the misunderstanding is inevitable." She spits.

Tony's response is childish in nature and tone. "As if you're any better."

"Your argument is badly formed." Nebula is tired of justifying it, and him by association, with a serious response. One hard jerk of her arm snaps some of the nanites, the second loosens her enough to get more leverage, and the third rips her arm free from the table.

"Are we done with words now?"

Nebula figures that no response is as good as an actual verbal response, in this situation. Bracing one hand on the table, she gives a swift jump to vault over it and land closer to him. To his credit, Tony does seem to grasp what she's not saying. Picks up what she is physically putting down. He stuffs one hand into his pocket, the other tightening around the glass case and keeping it close to his body. She doesn't take her time this go around, instead taking quick steps to settle the space between them.

When she's a step away from arm's reach, Tony's hand leaves his pocket. She can just catch the glint of the metal in the light before he throws a handful of shock pellets out. They clatter and roll on the floor, vines of electricity connecting them. Nebula has to sidestep to avoid the ones that go further. They wrap around the curve of the table's edge, a curtain of shining grey orbs and flickering electric currents.

Not even giving it a second thought, Nebula raises her arm and watches as the blaster lifts from a section of her arm. The whirring of her limb is paired with the high pitched noise of her weapon heating up. Impatience gets the best of her when she sees Tony going for the exit. She's not sure where he _thinks _he's going to go, since they're sort of trapped here indefinitely.

She doesn't wait as long as she should, firing off three consecutive shots toward the door. They don't hit Tony, but she wasn't aiming for him. They dent the door instead, causing him to backpedal as she aims at the floor and shoots at the pellets strewn around acting as a blockade. They scatter with the force of the blasts and the floor sports a few holes and new dents for her efforts. Nebula couldn't care less. The ship is nothing more than a metal coffin, now. A graveyard of memories and missing persons.

Making the first move this time, Nebula goes to grab him again. Tony manages to evade her and land a bony elbow into her torso and she grunts at the impact before using his proximity to her advantage. Without a single thought, her left leg gives a sloppy kick and sweeps his feet out from under him. As expected, the man falls. For a moment he's suspended in the air, trying to brace himself.

And for a moment the glass container housing the symbiote is suspended, too.

That moment, as all moments do, passes. Glass crashing against the floor and shattering deafens Nebula, but it does nothing to stop the flow of time. Tony is still trying to get over his disorientation when she raises her arm and sends a flurry of shots off in the direction the small glass case landed. The sound of her weapon firing almost drowns out his objections to her reckless attempts at ridding them of the symbiote. She can see it twisting and tossing around with extraordinary speed, rearranging itself to avoid her shots with an ease that does nothing to quell her panic.

"Hey!" Tony is smart enough to curl in on himself, rolling on his side to face her. One thinned arm flies out and his hand latches around her ankle. "Hey! What the fuck! I'm down here!"

Nebula looks down at him briefly and stops shooting. It's all she gives him before looking back up to find her target. She can't see it. She shakes her leg, giving Tony an agitated look as he releases her. She steps over him as he rolls and sits up to gawk at her. It's just _gone._ Things don't just disappear.

"You nearly shot me!" It's hard to ignore the harsh yell of Tony's words in the newfound silence.

Chest heaving, Nebula turns to face him. "Where did it go?"

"I was a little too busy noticing you _shooting at me _to keep track." Tony snips as he flops onto his back and reclines his head against the floor.

His lack of concern is horrifying and irritating. Nebula kicks his foot petulantly as she passes by him, ignoring the noise of offense he makes in response. She circles the room four times and comes up with nothing. Which means it's just lurking somewhere in here. With them. If being trapped in space is bad, being trapped in space with a symbiote is worse.

"We're paste."

"Toast." Tony breathes out the word, sounding exhausted. "We're toast, is what you mean."

Nebula looks down at him, retracting her gun. "No," her voice is hollow. "I meant paste."

_Benhazin System_  
_2020_

Setbacks are not uncommon, in fiction or reality. They come up in every story, no matter how large or small, minor inconveniences or immeasurable impasses. So it should come as no surprise to anyone that the remaining Asgardians and Sakaaran rebels face their own within the span of two years. First it was a lack of fuel, something fixed easily enough. Next it was quelling questions of whether or not _Earth, _a simple Midgardian planet, was the right place to go. Questions of whether or not Thor was alive, and if they knew what they were heading into. And after _that_ it was the raiders.

Remains of the Kallusians from the third planet from the sun: Kallu. A race of purple skinned aliens that are, sort of, humanoid. They have a similar bone structure and scale of height, as well as musculature. But their eyes are all white except for the pupil, their ears are long and pointed, and in place of hair they develop metallic shells. A democratic and courageous people, with advanced interstellar knowledge and technology that could be dangerous if they cared to weaponize it.

There hadn't been many of them left on Kallu. Due to an unfortunate combination of their intergalactic war with the Yirbek and the tough arctic conditions of their planet and the constantly rising water. As a result, when Thanos wiped out half of all life it must have left only a handful of them alive.

There's no telling what drove them to raiding, to abandoning their planet in favor of trying to pillage others, but Loki thinks it must have been bitterness. For all their honesty, perseverance in the face of endless trouble, they received nothing. For all their efforts toward and attempts at intergalactic diplomacy, often trying to act as a common thread between planets with their system of bartering knowledge for camaraderie, they were rewarded with annihilation. Handed a consolation prize of a pitiful number of survivors to carry on their wealth of knowledge and technology. It makes sense that some of them, if not all of them, would lose sight of the point in their ways.

Loki understands why they could have chosen to do what they did, but it didn't earn them any sympathy when they tried to ravage his ship. They fought and they died, as nothing more or less than a setback on a mission much larger than their own lives.

That setback had caused another, along with the realization that they weren't well enough prepared. Without the resources offered to them from their throneworld, they didn't have enough weapons. Didn't have enough technology. Didn't have enough supplies. They need more than meager contribution to the cause in the form of combat trained bodies. Having war in their blood as Asgardians isn't enough. Brunnhilde had argued with him for a week over the idea of purposely bypassing their destination to, as she said,_ mine trash heaps._

Countless terse discussions and judgments of pros and cons eventually convinced her, as Loki knew they would. He had told her that their new destination, the asteroid belt of Benhazin was close by. In the same galaxy, in fact. Informed her that it would be easy and quick and beneficial in the long run because _resources are valuable, and a universal currency. _All of those things were, and still are, incredibly true.

And yet, somehow, Loki has spent much more time here than he was planning.

"We've been here for seven months, you know."

Staring absently out of one of the view ports, Loki has been trying to ignore Brunnhilde for the better part of ten minutes. As usual, the Valkyrie is determined to be noticed. She's pacing back and forth in front of his seat, obstructing his view, with both arms tight at her sides. Her hands clench and relax over and over, dark hair whipping around her face wildly as she alternates between directing her words to the floor and to his face. Stopping abruptly, she turns on her left heel to face him and slowly raises her fists before slowly bringing them up one at a time until seven of her fingers are on display.

"Seven."

"Yes," Loki rests his chin on his fist and sighs. "I'm well enough educated to count."

Brunnhilde cocks a brow, umber skin coloring with her frustration. "Not enough to know the meaning of 'quick' or 'easy.' Seems about fair to question your general intelligence."

"The vibranium -"

"No." She shakes her head. "I don't want to hear about the _vibranium _anymore."

Frowning, the green eyed man tips his head to one side. "It's -"

"Valuable." Brunnhilde does her best imitation of him, lifting her chin and changing her tone. It's pretty good, he knows she's been getting a lot of practice recently. "I get it. The whole asteroid belt, all vibranium, you love vibranium, you want to permanently bind yourself to vibranium in an extravagant ceremony -"

"Well now you're just being silly." Loki's admonishment is followed by an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"That doesn't make you any less of a moron." The insult bounces off of him like a rubber pellet and falls, meaningless, between them.

Loki doesn't mind the spiteful comments much. The former Valkyrie might not be the best company, drinking all the booze left on their transport and prodding at him and asking questions she very well _knows _he won't have an answer to. But no one else is willing to approach him; either discomforted by his presence or simply not trusting him enough to exchange more than a few passing words when they run into him. So, he'll take what he can get. It's not _his _fault the ungrateful wretches can't see he's trying to do right, for once. It's not like he outdid himself and morphed duplicates to look like their people and then painfully faked his death just to get them to safety or anything like that. If they want to avoid him and have no part in his plans that's _their _problem and it'll suit him just fine when he reestablishes some form of order and they're all screwed out of it.

"Are you trying to mine the whole asteroid belt?" Brunnhilde asks him and, while she still spits the words, he takes note of the serious question there.

Has he considered trying to mine the whole belt? Absolutely not. It would take way too much time, considering every asteroid is laced and filled with the resource. It's already taken longer than he was hoping to get what they have now. Does Loki put on his most serious face and pretend to consider it, just to step on her nerves? Of course.

"It's not as if we're on a particularly strict schedule." The maker of mischief hums. "Though I'm not sure we have enough storage to carry it all. It's light enough that the extra weight won't prevent a problem, but our limited space will."

Brunnhilde snorts without amusement. "We're not mining the whole asteroid belt."

"We could." Loki continues his charade of pondering the change in plans. "Discard any unnecessary additions to the ship, it would be an impressive haul."

"You are hilarious, you know that?" The dark skinned woman drops herself into the seat beside him, apparently done entertaining his shenanigans. "Do you get pleasure out of causing me strife?

He thinks about it and shrugs. "It passes the time."

Aside from their setbacks, their troublesome encounters, things are boring. There's no Thor to bounce ideas off of. No Odin to give lectures worth taking note of. No Frigga to learn from and listen to. There are no old halls to explore or fields to lay claim to. No portals open nearby to give him leave. There's not a lot of mischief to conjure up while floating through space, either. Turning into another form to trick Brunnhilde had been fun enough for a while, until she got wise to his tricks and started stomping on him or carelessly flinging him aside instead of entertaining him.

Without these distractions, Loki spends most of his time thinking and preparing. About the fate of his brother, about the state of Midgard, about the years where his memory is filled with holes and whispers of _bring me the stone, that's all I desire _before it's filled with a brutal green giant and nothing but war. He thinks about his disobedience to the Mad Titan, and how he has paid for it. Preparing for the war that has yet to come, and the one they have already lost.

It's nice to pass the time in other ways. Find smaller things to focus on. Things that don't leave him with questions he can't answer.

Maybe that's why they're still here. It's not something he'll ever admit but maybe, just possibly, there's a part of him that wants to stay in the Benhazin System because it's easier. Simpler. There are no questions he doesn't have answers to, no wonders of his brother or the state of the universe. All there is is the asteroid belt and the vibranium and Loki.

Years ago, he would have stayed here. Or gone as far from everything else as he could. Now, though, he can't. He can't because he shouldn't, and he wants to even if he shouldn't, so he doesn't.

"At least we'll have plenty of weapons, after this." Brunnhilde grumbles, more to herself than him.

Loki shakes his head, catching her attention as he sits straight. "We're not here to make weapons, _fogl._"

"We're not?" She replies flatly, looking very much like she doesn't believe him.

"No." He says slowly, and she scowls at him.

"Don't look at me like that." Comes her tart response. "It's a logical assumption."

Keeping his words slow, because he knows it irks her to be treated like she's behind, he continues: "We're not launching an assault. It's far too late for that."

"Obviously." Brunnhilde looks away from him, out to the cosmos.

For once, she looks worried. The Valkyrie hasn't been one for showcasing her emotions, displaying her thoughts or feelings for anyone. Everything is clipped humor and low tones, aggression and sarcasm her go-to ranges. Sharp looks and practiced expressions are a constant on her features. Loki watches her as her brows crease and her lips pull down and her cheek twitches, tucks away all of the details and nuances like files in an office. It's an unconscious thing, an automatic action, taking a mental inventory of these minute traits and personal tells.

There's no plan to use this against her or tie her down like there was with their initial meeting. Loki can't help but do it nonetheless. Critical green orbs categorize the way her legs shift restlessly, the action of her hand migrating from the holster of her gun to tug at the collar of her shirt. Brunnhilde's brown eyes are still aimed out of the port, likely not even registering what she's actually looking at. Her expression is similar to when he wiggled his fingers into her memories, without the shock.

"Defensive systems." Loki looks away from her, to avoid unwanted suspicion.

Brunnhilde spares him a laugh, tilting her head up and screwing her eyes to the ceiling. "Isn't it a little late for that, too?"

"On the contrary," a smile twitches at the corners of his lips. "I think the timing is superb."


End file.
